


A Shilling For Your Kiss

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another one from shkinkmeme. LJ user Coasterchild had given me a theory of pairing Mycroft Holmes and Irene Adler together and I ran with it. </p><p>What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? The answer is espionage, mayhem, explosions and arguments about song lyrics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shilling For Your Kiss

Irene Adler didn't even see them coming. Relaxing in her room at the Grand, in a dressing gown, she didn't have time to make an effective escape when the two men came into her room.

She did, however, have time to throw a vase at one man, who resembled a small terrier. The vase shattered against his head, causing him to double over in pain. Irene then attempted to evade the other man -- a great big hulking lug who appeared to be the slower of the two. However, he was quicker than she thought. He tripped her, then lifted her and held her waist with a vise-like grip.

"She's a feisty one," said the other man, who picked pieces of the vase out of his hair. He pulled out a set of darbies and the man holding her spun her around.

Irene hissed and then attempted to knee the man, but there wasn't enough room between their bodies to get enough momentum to be effective. She felt the handcuffs slip around her wrists and click tight around her wrists.

"Now are you going to behave Miss Adler?" she heard the man hiss in her ear, his hot breath tickling her skin. "Or do we have to take other measures?"

Her head flew back and slammed him in the face. Grunting in pain, she could hear him curse softly.

"I guess it's the other measures," he said.

She felt a needle prick her arm. Then everything went black.

~*~

When Irene awoke, she found herself sitting in a chair, still clad in her dressing gown. Thankfully the darbies were off of her and she rubbed her wrists to ease the pain.

The room was dark. There was a desk in front of her -- a great, big ebony desk. Even though it was afternoon, curtains were drawn and there was no light in the room, save for a small lamp. As Irene's eyes adjusted she saw that there was a door behind the desk.

There was also a great hulking specimen of a man sitting across from her. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Sherlock Holmes -- except much more massive in appearance with broad shoulders. His dark hair was slicked back and his dark eyes were staring at her with neutral interest. Irene was vaguely amused that he didn‘t seem scandalized by the fact that there was a woman clad only in a dressing gown in his office. Holmes men were fairly nonplussed about certain things, she mused.

"Miss Adler," he said sonorously.

"Mr. Holmes," she said calmly.

His eyebrows rose in quick surprise. "The familial resemblance?" he asked after a moment.

She nodded. "You however, are a bit bigger than your brother."

"Yes, well, his prefers a more active life," was the reply.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Mycroft," he said. "Do not be alarmed Miss Adler, you're in the company of the British government."

"You could have sent a letter requesting I come and visit," she replied coquettishly, adjusting the gown to cover herself a bit more. "The two goons you had were a bit much."

There was a dry chuckle. "Yes, but knowing you, that would have given you enough time to run away," he replied. "You see Miss Adler, we are familiar with your modus operandi. And we require your assistance in a matter."

"What?"

"A certain Professor James Moriarty has taken something from us," Mycroft said. "We would like it back."

Irene knew instantly what Mycroft was speaking about -- the radio controlled device that Reordan was working on.

"Why should I help you?" She leaned back in the chair, a bit of leg peeking through the opening in her gown. Mycroft didn‘t visibly react to the display of flesh, which was a damn shame, Irene thought.

Another humorless smile crossed his lips. "Miss Adler -- we already have a witness of impeccable character willing to testify that it was you who stole the device from government-seized property."

Irene closed her eyes. Damn Sherlock. Next time she saw him, she was going to punch him in the face.

She could hear Mycroft open a file and page through it. "My Miss Adler," he said with a bit of amusement. "You've had an interesting career -- thievery, conning royalty --" he looked up and chuckled. "I'm impressed with you impersonating an opera singer."

Her eyes flashed open and she pouted. "I can sing."

"Can you?" He leaned forward and pressed his fingertips together -- a mirror of his brother. "Show me."

"I'm not warmed up right now." She pulled the gown around her leg.

Another mirthless chuckle. "In any case, Miss Adler, I come to you with an opportunity. Help us obtain that device and your past crimes will be erased."

"And if I don't?"

He smiled. "The door's behind you Miss Adler," he said plainly. "You could leave."

She sent him a shrewd look and walked over to the door. She took an experimental sniff. Gunpowder and the smell of revolver cleaner. Irene closed her eyes. She could hear a gun cocking on the other side.

Instead, she turned around. "I think I will help you," she said with a bright smile. "I've got nothing else to do and a bit of intrigue is always fun."

Mycroft's smile remained humorless. "Excellent," he said. He handed her an envelope. "This contains all the information you will need. Report to me at the Diogenes Club. Stranger's Room."

She nodded. "Do you have a pen so I can write this all down?"

He nodded and handed one to her. She scribbled out the notes.

"You can exit in the door behind me," he said, as she wrote, before handing her a coat to cover herself.

"I won't let you down," Irene said, donning the coat and walking past him and out the door.

Closing his eyes, he heard her open the door and run quickly down the hall. Inhaling, he savored the scent of her perfume and listened as the door opened in front of him.

"Are you sure she can do this?" he heard a man's voice ask.

Mycroft nodded.

"She might have lost her touch after being frightened by Moriarty."

Mycroft shook his head.

"You don't think so?"

"No."

"Why is that?"

"Because my dear Mr. Stibbons, once a thief, always a thief."

"How can you tell?"

Mycroft's eyes flashed open. "She just left here with my pen."

~*~

If Mycroft Holmes thought Irene was going to stick around and do his orders like some trained lap dog, he obviously didn't know her.

First thing she did, after the government cab dropped her off at the hotel, was pack up her essentials -- a few jewels, her pistol, lockpicks, knives and all her money -- get dressed and leave the Grand. She went and got a cup of tea and a snack at a cafe. Then she slipped into the back and bribed the owner to change outfits with her. Once that was accomplished, she sent the owner out on an errand and left the back way.

She had learned from her encounter with Moriarty. Irene realized that traveling incognito required less flashy clothing.

Pulling the cloak over her head, she headed to the train station and purchased a ticket for Dover. From there, it would be easy to catch a ferry to the Continent and vanish.

Ever since her last encounter with Moriarty, Irene had always been skittish about trains. She never felt safe until she heard the train whistle blow and it leave the station. Anytime a porter said it was running late, the hair on the back of her neck would stand on end and she'd begin looking around for a professor bathed in dark shadows.

Given the fact that she was undoubtedly being watched by Mycroft's minions, it was no surprise that Irene breathed a big sigh of relief as the train pulled away from the station.

But she didn't rest easy until she saw London fade away in the background. Then she allowed herself a moment to close her eyes and take a big sigh of relief.

Then she heard the footsteps. They were not subtle footsteps. No, this person wanted people to realize he was in the room.

And then there was the singing -- it was soft, slightly scratchy baratone. Obviously untrained, but not unpleasant to the ear.

"Penny for your thoughts, a nickel for your kiss, a shilling if you tell me you love me."

Irene heaved a sigh and cursed. Mycroft. How the hell did he find her?

"It's not 'a shilling if you love me,'" she said, her eyes still closed. "It's 'a dime if you tell me that you love me.'"

There was a low chuckle. "We don't have dimes here Miss Adler," he said. She could feel his weight sit next to her on the bench. "It's also a pleasant surprise to see you here."

She opened her eyes and glanced at him. Instead of seeing a peevish expression, which is what Sherlock would have, Mycroft's expression was pleasantly neutral. It was as if he had run into a friend on the train and was looking for a way to pass the time.

He had a bag in his hand and offered it to her. "Peanut?" he said. "I always am fond of a snack while I travel."

"How did you know?" she said, pushing the peanuts back at him.

Mycroft smiled. Irene realized it was a stupid question. Of course. If he was Sherlock's brother, he was no doubt brilliant in his own right.

"I'm more amazed that you'd try and run," he replied. "I didn't think that you'd be foolish enough to try that."

That stung her pride. "I wasn't," she lied. "I was going to the assigned location. In Switzerland."

Mycroft's smile remained pleasantly neutral. "In that case my dear, I hope you don't mind if I accompany you on your assignment?"

"I thought you didn't like being as active as your brother," was the tart reply that flew out of Irene's lips.

"I don't," he said. "But unfortunately, my superiors don't trust your character as much as I do, so I must accompany you to ensure that we achieve this goal."

Irene had no idea if he was telling the truth, but it also didn't matter. Mycroft was going to come with her and ensure she got the job done. She let out an irritated huff.

Mycroft merely chuckled, which sounded like a low rumble of mirth.

"If I knew this was going to occur, I would have brought my things," she said.

"What makes you think I didn't?"

She chuckled. "So thoughtful."

~*~

For the majority of the train ride, they were silent. Irene did her best to ignore Mycroft, staring out the window as she tried to figure out a way to escape.

Judging by his decision to join her on the trip, it was obvious that he was as smart as Sherlock, if not more. The trick would be to find his weak points, Irene thought to herself. But what were they?

She glanced over at him. His eyes were closed and it appeared he was napping. Irene studied his features with an appraising eye. He was larger than Sherlock. Where Sherlock was lithe and graceful, Mycroft was more of a lumbering hulk of a man.

Broad shoulders, thick chest and waist. A massive head with a thick tree trunk for a neck. No, this man was not build for speed, Irene thought. He could be used as a battering ram, but he was not going to knock the door down in a quick fashion. Irene wondered how his stamina would be in a chase. Somehow she suspected he'd be slow, but steady in his pace.

The trick would be to get enough of a head start away from him, Irene thought. If she had that, then he would never have a chance to catch up and hopefully she'd be able to evade him.

An opportunity soon presented itself. The train stopped in Ashford to take on more passengers. Mycroft's eyes opened and he yawned and stretched.

"I take it we are in Ashford?" he asked. "I believe we'll have a few minutes to stretch our legs if you so desire."

Irene nodded and stood up. Mycroft also stood up and took her arm gently. Irene noted that there was no force behind it. It was a gentlemanly gesture. Despite his hulking build, he appeared every bit a gentleman.

A conductor announced that they had approximately 10 minutes before the train departed.

They wandered around the station a bit, enjoying the fresh air and beautiful weather. Irene noted that Mycroft seemed to savor being out in nature and enjoying the fresh air -- as if he was normally locked up in an office. She thought about running away while he remained placid, but her instincts told her to wait a bit -- there was no telling how strong Mycroft actually was and that could prove to be fatal.

After a certain amount of time passed, Irene decided to make her move. "I need to go to the ladies' room," Irene said.

"Do you?" his lips quirked up in a smile.

Irene couldn't help but huff. She didn't know what was more maddening -- the bemused smile he always had or Sherlock's peevish expression. Holmes men apparently were professionals in annoying others, she thought. Or at least they seemed good at annoying her.

She nodded.

His arm gently dropped from hers. "I'll be waiting out here for you," he said.

Irene went into the bathroom. It was small, with no windows. No alternate exits other than where she entered. This would not work, Irene thought. So she used the toilet, cleaned herself up and exited the room.

Mycroft was standing there and he offered his arm. "Miss Adler?" he asked. "The train will be leaving soon."

Irene backed away from him, "No," she said loudly. "I am not going with you. I don't know who you are and you need to stop following me. I have no idea who this Miss Adler is that you speak of."

It was maddening. Mycroft's expression remained bemused, as if he was suppressing a chuckle. Irene wished he'd lunge for her, something, anything to get other people's attention.

"I'm sorry my dear," he said. "I mistook you for someone else."

Irene backpedaled. "I'm not who you think I am," she said, then turned tail and ran as she heard the train whistle blow. She took one glance behind her and saw Mycroft standing on the train, waving at her with that pleasant expression on his face.

"I'm sorry my dear," he called out. "But I do hope to cross paths with a woman as lovely as you again."

With that, Irene turn around and stalked out of the train station as fast as she could. Mycroft may have been on the train, but there was no promise that she was completely free of him yet.

She checked her purse. Her money and gems were still in there, which surprised her. Irene expected Mycroft to rob her of all possessions that would allow her to escape easily. This was unsettling in a way.

Speed was of the essence she realized. Also, she couldn't return to London. Mycroft had enough allies there to capture her and bring her back to him. She'd have to change her route and just keep moving as much as possible in another direction. Dover wasn't a safe place now. As a result, Irene hailed a cab.

"I'm going to Canterbury," she told the driver.

"Do you realize how much that will cost miss?" the driver asked.

She handed him some money. Judging by his facial expression, it was more than what he'd normally earn in a day.

"Do as I ask, and I'll make it worth your while," she said.

"As the lady requests," he said, cracking his whip. The carriage started with a jerk and they headed for the open road.

~*~

"You mean to tell me you lost her?" Mycroft's superior stared at him in disbelief.

Mycroft shook his head and lit a cigar. The remains of a fine dinner was sitting in front of him and he looked at the man who was sitting across from him.

"No," he said, after savoring the smoke for a moment. "She behaved exactly as I knew she would."

The man sitting across from him was a Lord Geoffrey Winterbrook. Mycroft always thought he lacked a certain amount of imagination (and also bore an uncanny resemblance to a gawping frog) but given his family connections, he wasn't surprised to see Lord Winterbrook rise in the ranks of government.

"But she's gone," Winterbrook looked upset. "We don't know where she is and she's probably the best source we have to get the device from Moriarty."

Mycroft exhaled a bit of smoke and studied it as it danced in the light. "Lord Winterbrook, during my time with her Majesty, have I ever led you wrong?"

There was a long silence before Winterbrook said, "No."

Mycroft smiled. "Then trust in me again," he said. "Besides," he added, checking his watch, "I suspect Miss Adler will be back with us tonight."

*~*

By the time Irene reached Canterbury, the sun was setting and it was getting late. Even though she had created some distance between her and Mycroft, it wasn't enough, Irene thought, cursing to herself.

Even if he was on the train when she left, there was no promise that he remained on the train, Irene thought. He could have gotten off at the next stop and begun following her to where he thought she would be.

Irene checked her purse. While she still had some money, she knew that she couldn't spend all of it in her dash to get out of England. She would need some for later to get a boat ticket to Spain.

At the Canterbury train station, she found that the last train had left already. Not that it was a big loss -- it was going through London, where she didn't want to be anywhere near.

She felt her stomach growl and Irene sighed, wishing that she did take one of the peanuts Mycroft offered her. She couldn't remember when she last ate. The hooligans had kidnapped her that morning, before she could even enjoy breakfast and she had been on the run ever since.

No, she'd have to get a meal, and hopefully find someone willing to take her somewhere westward. Irene wandered a bit and then found a restaurant that was open. It was a simple little pub, not very crowded, but filled with regulars.

Irene entered and felt all eyes on her. She sat at a table and a harried looking barmaid came over. "May I help you miss?"

"Meat pie and a drop of ale please," Irene said quietly.

"Yes miss," said the barmaid and she headed off for the kitchen and returning with a simple pie and a pint of ale.

The meal was more potato and crust than bread, but given her hunger, Irene found it to be one of the more delicious meals that she had. The ale was also quite satisfactory and a full stomach took away some of the irritation that Irene had.

She also had a moment to speak with the barmaid about a possible inn, which was located down the road. And so, Irene set off, walking alone at night to the inn.

Perhaps that was a big mistake.

~*~

Irene realized that she had made an error when three men stepped out of doorways and surrounded her. Irene eyed them up. One was a large man in an awful brown coat and checkered pants. Another, who was dressed in a pea green coat and brown trousers, looked like he had been fighting much of his life, judging by his scars, while the third looked like the brains of the bunch -- and a bit like a natty-dressed weasel.

"Evenin' Miss," said the weasel-faced man.

Irene nodded at the men with an imperious look.

The other two men slid behind her. Irene fingered her knives, hidden in her sleeves.

"Sorry Miss Adler, but the Professor's been looking for you," the weasel said.

"What professor?" she replied, concealing the daggers in her hands.

"You know what we mean luv," and with that, she felt someone's arms grab her around the waist, restraining her arms.

In a second, Irene flicked the push daggers she concealed in her hands and swung her arms back. She smiled when she felt the daggers connect with the man's legs and he howled in pain. He dropped her to the ground and Irene spun around, kicking the other man in the groin with her boots. That man crumpled to the ground groaning, as Irene smiled. Steel-toed boots were a necessity at times.

Turning to face the brains of the operation, she saw he had a gun pulled on her. "Sorry luv," he said. "But it's got to be this way -- Professor's orders."

Before he could even pull the trigger, there was the sound of a gunshot and a red blossom of blood bloomed on his chest. The ferret-faced man fell to the ground, his eyes vacant of the spark of life.

Irene turned around to see two men standing behind her. They both were wearing nondescript black suits, black bowlers and looked not very intimidating, despite the fact that they just killed a man.

"Thank you gentlemen," she said, dusting herself off. "Now if you'll excuse me."

Before she could run, she felt another set of handcuffs be placed on her wrists.

"I'm sorry Miss Adler," she heard one man say. "But a Mr. Holmes would like to see you."

Irene chuckled. "Of course."

~*~ 

One of the bigger advantages of traveling with the government was the speed of travel, Irene would muse later. But in this case, it was more of an impediment than a blessing.

They reached Dover in record time with the aid of a very fast train. Even with that, they arrived after midnight. The men escorted her to a hotel room, unlocked the handcuffs and opened the door.

Inside was a large, comfortable room. There were two chairs by the fireplace, a comfortable looking bed and a bucket of champagne with some Brie, fruit and crackers on a plate next to it. Even though she had dinner a few hours ago, Irene could feel her stomach growling.

And Mycroft. Who was still dressed in his suit. He was pouring two glasses when she entered the room. He looked up at her and smiled. That same dammed bemused smile.

Irene cocked an eyebrow. _The helling hell?_ her expression seemed to say.

Mycroft handed her a glass, "Miss Adler," he said with a pleased tone. "So happy you could join me."

She sniffed the glass of champagne suspiciously, then watched him take a long pull from it and refill his glass.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, sipping from the glass. It was an excellent vintage she noted. "Your friends were very insistent that I come to Dover and meet you."

He smiled. "I was also briefed on what occurred in Canterbury," he said, settling into a chair. "The Professor is obviously tying up his loose threads."

Irene sat in the chair next to him. He passed over the plate of cheese, fruit and crackers.

"I take it dinner was less than satisfactory?" he asked with an amused glint in his eye as Irene wolfed down the food.

She didn't comment. "What makes you think Moriarty is tying up loose ends?" Irene said after she downed her glass and Mycroft had poured another. There was one thing Irene knew -- Mycroft wasn't trying to kill her. He needed her for some reason, so poisoning her would not be his plan.

Mycroft gave her a look. "My dear," he said with a low chuckle. "Let's not play games here."

Irene smiled slightly. "So you're saying it's in my best interests to stay with you?"

He shrugged. "Well, you're alive right now correct?" Mycroft studied her. "And apparently quite enamored with the little refreshment I have offered."

"If I knew I was going to travel in style like this, that would have made me reconsider running," she offered a coquettish smile.

Mycroft's smile remained bemused. "Are you saying you're going to cooperate?"

Irene's smile got bigger. "Mayhaps."

With her smile, Mycroft chuckled slightly. "Have you had a chance to get fully acquainted with the dossier?" he asked after taking another drag on his cigar and thoughtfully blowing some rings in the air.

Irene shook her her. "I will confess, I had enough time to see that you had included tickets to Switzerland and that was it," she admitted. This was different, she thought to herself. She was used to men attempting to seduce her after the champagne and a snack.

Instead, Mycroft wanted to discuss business. Is that all Holmes' men were interested in? she thought petulantly to herself. Business?

Mycroft nodded. "Then I'll be brief, because it is late and we have the ferry to catch in the morning as well as a train," he said.

"We are looking for a man by the name of Charles Dettwiler. He's been missing from his home in Bern for approximately three days now," Mycroft handed Irene a picture of a man, young with wild dark hair and a Van dyke beard and moustache. He was wearing a pair of gold spectacles and looked rather thin.

"We suspect that Dettwiler has been working with Professor Moriarty," Mycroft said. "How long, we aren't sure. But shortly after the radio device was found missing by our agents, Dettwiler went missing."

Irene studied the picture. "And what has he got to do with Reordan's little invention?"

"Dettwiler had published papers hypothesizing about radio waves and methods of using them to transmit communication," Mycroft explained. "He's also quite an inventor himself and is known for his work with electricity."

"If anyone could figure out what Reordan did, it would be him," Irene continued.

Mycroft looked positively pleased. "Exactly my dear," he said, his pleased smile getting a bit bigger. "I'm willing to wager that he's got the device."

"So what do you want from me?" Irene asked. "Why not hire your dear little brother and his friend?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Dear Sherlock and the good Dr. Watson are in pursuit of the professor," he replied. "They've got that to deal with. Besides, I think that you might be perfect for this."

"Whatever for?"

"I believe that you will be a bit more discreet in your ventures," Mycroft said. "They will be looking for Sherlock and Dr. Watson. However, they won't be expecting a woman. Also, studying your techniques, you are an accomplished master of getting in and out of situations discreetly."

Irene snorted. Most men didn't expect a woman -- which is how she managed to get so much wealth. "Don't be so certain," she replied. "What about the men who accosted me in Canterbury who were from Moriarty?"

"I'll take care of them," Mycroft replied. "My personal goal is to clear the path for you to get the device and bring it to us. Don't worry about that. What I want you to worry about is finding out where Dettwiler is and obtaining the device."

"Are you staying here in England then and sending out your minions?"

Mycroft chuckled. "I would have liked to, but your latest escapade made my superiors even more adamant that I accompany you and watch over you."

Irene pouted. "It sounds like your superiors don't trust me," she said.

"We're talking to a woman who evaded my brother's capture numerous times," Mycroft replied. "They're hoping that I'll be able to keep you on a shorter leash."

Another unladylike snort. "Well, you have my assistance now, so I wouldn't worry too much," she replied icily.

Mycroft nodded, stubbing out the remains of his cigar and tossing it into the fire. "Indeed," he replied, checking his watch. "Now, given that it's almost two, I shall leave you to retire for the evening. You'll find some of your things in the suitcase over there." Mycroft pointed to a corner. "I hope everything is to your satisfaction."

With that, he exited the room. Once she was certain she was alone, Irene locked the door and removed her dress -- well, the dress she had from the shopkeeper back in London. Clad in her undergarments, Irene lay down and stared at the ceiling.

Normally by now, she would have seduced a man, wrapped her legs around him and left him sleeping in bed, a bit poorer for his foolishness. But she knew that Mycroft wasn't that simple of a creature, if she knew Holmes men.

No, he was interested in the mission and getting that device back. And because he had ascertained that she was an essential tool for the case, Irene was going to have to fulfill this task. Otherwise he would just continue to pop up like a slow moving jack-in-the-box at the most inconvenient times. Not to mention, being under his protection may be safer right now than out there alone with Moriarty's minions hunting her down.

But as she lay there, with the sounds of birds beginning to twitter and the blue-gray light of dawn glowing in her window, Irene hit upon an idea. One that would keep her safe and possibly have a richer reward than having her criminal record erased. The entire trick would be getting Mycroft to trust her completely -- which was going to be the biggest obstacle, Irene realized.

As she closed her eyes for a brief nap, Irene realized with a soft laugh of surprise that it was probably better that she hadn't even attempted to seduce Mycroft tonight.

~*~

_Mycroft --_

_I have to say I am surprised by your decision to use Miss Adler in your quest to get the transmitting device from Moriarty. I know you are familiar with her background and her antics, so I will not speak further on that._

_However, I will warn you that under no circumstances whatsoever, should she be trusted. She is a cunning and manipulative woman who will use whatever resources possible to gain what she wants. Even if it's her beauty and her body. Remember, this is a woman who found my weak points and exploited them. And that is not an ordinary thing._

_But no matter. I trust that you will be intelligent enough to keep her at arm's distance. I await news from you and wish you luck on your venture._

_Your petit frere,_

_Sherlock_

Mycroft crumpled the letter and threw it in the fire with a chuckle. It wasn't out of anger that he did that -- Mycroft rarely did things out of emotion, if at all. If he knew Irene, she would attempt to gain the upper hand on him at every opportunity, and it was essential that anything like that be destroyed.

After he had left Irene's room, Mycroft returned to his room, read over a few reports, wrote some letters containing coded instructions and then retired for a few hours of sleep.

He woke with the dawn, dressed and soon there was a knock on his door. A servant brought in breakfast. Mycroft handed him the letters and asked that they go out with the first mailing.

A half-hour later, Irene knocked on his door.

"Come in," Mycroft said, standing up.

Irene entered, dressed in her own clothing and looking refreshed.

"Irene," Mycroft smiled. "You look lovely. Care for breakfast?"

"Thank you Mycroft," she replied, sitting across from him.

Mycroft poured some tea. "The hotel here is quite skilled at curried eggs," he said. "I ordered that and a few other things, since I was not sure what you would like."

"Toast, jam and tea is quite satisfactory for me," she said. "I was told you wanted to see me?"

Mycroft nodded, then took another bite of his eggs. "I wanted to inform you that we'll be taking the morning ferry over to Calais this morning, then taking the train to Bern," he wiped his mouth and took a long sip from his tea.

"So what is our reason for traveling together?" Irene asked, taking a small bite of toast. "Or are we going to pretend that we don't know each other."

Mycroft chuckled. "My dear, if we did that, I suspect you'd run off again," he said, sopping up a bit of the egg with toast, before popping it into his mouth. "No, we have false identities."

He reached down and handed Irene an envelope. She opened it. There were documents with the name Elizabeth Jenkins. Irene sipped her tea and arched an eyebrow.

"That's all well and good for me," she said. "But what about you?"

Mycroft poured another cup of tea and looked up at her. "Oh, I'm your husband, Russell Jenkins," he said, refilling her cup. "We've been married for a few years, now we're bored of each other, but we still insist on traveling together. In short, it's a conventional marriage."

Irene smiled -- a bright, genuine smile. "But wouldn't you call this cliche in a way?"

"Cliches exist for a reason my dear," Mycroft replied. "Besides, no one would question a man and woman traveling together as a married couple. And as a bored, vaguely unhappy couple, that gives you freer room to move. If we were newlyweds, everyone would expect us glued together, with me whispering hot words of love in your ear and showering you with presents. As a bored, married couple, you can go out at night under the guise that I'm not feeling well, but I still insist that you go out and see the sights."

Irene nodded. "Very astute."

Mycroft offered a bemused smile. "Yes. In any case, your things will be packed up soon and we'll be leaving soon."

Irene finished nibbling on her toast. "Very well Russell," she said. "I will see you in a few minutes."

Mycroft nodded. "Until then Elizabeth."

~*~

It was an unseasonably beautiful day for the ferry ride to Calais. As a result, both Mycroft and Irene enjoyed staying outside, taking the air. The majority of the ride was in silence, as the pair enjoyed the weather and the sea breeze.

Irene was bored. The ride was peaceful, there were few people on board and Mycroft seemed more engrossed in reading that talking with her. They had made small chat on the way to the ferry, but none of it was particularly engrossing. Instead, he seemed to settle into the role of absentee husband with a great deal of gusto, choosing to read a book instead of paying attention to her.

Which was something she wasn't accustomed to. Normally when she was in the company of men, she was used to having their attention focused on her and her alone. Even Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes off of her -- even if it was out of fear that she would steal something.

After wandering around the deck, Irene plopped herself next to Mycroft with a huff. Mycroft continued reading his book and didn't acknowledge her little snort of boredom.

Irene noticed that Mycroft was engrossed in a book, but when she peered over his shoulder, it was in a language that appeared to be Chinese. The only reason she knew this was the few encounters she had in London's opium dens.

"It's the Tao Te Ching," Mycroft said, not looking up from his book. "I find it to be a very relaxing book that's filled with wisdom."

Irene smiled slightly -- of course he would know she was looking over his shoulder. "What's it about?"

"It's a spot of philosophy," Mycroft said. "Simply how to deal with life and the odd circumstances one finds himself in."

She nodded. "And you can read that chicken scratching?"

"It's Mandarin Chinese," Mycroft replied, his tone as patient as ever. "This is one of the oldest languages in existence."

"Heathens in opium dens speak that."

There was a snort from Mycroft. "My dear," he looked up at her, with an amused glint in his eye. "We're talking about a culture that is thousands of years old. Filled with interesting history and contributions to our civilization.

"Did you know the Chinese invented silk? The same silk used in your dresses? Or noodles? Of course the Italians perfected that, in my opinion. And gunpowder -- they were the first to invent that and use it in spectacular works of art such as fireworks.

"Then there's the philosophy -- Sun Tzu's Art of War, I have found helpful in dealing with others. There is more to China than simply opium dens and laundry workers. Really, there is much to be learned from others as long as we keep an open mind."

"You sound more bohemian than other men that I've encountered," Irene replied rather testily.

"My dear, I am not like the other men you have encountered," Mycroft retorted with a slight smile.

She snorted. That much was true. "So how did you learn to read this?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I wanted to learn," he said. "And so, I hired a laundryman to teach me in his spare time."

"Read me some of it," Irene said.

Mycroft opened a page and began to read in a low, rumbling voice.

_"A good traveler has no fixed plans_   
_and is not intent upon arriving._   
_A good artist lets his intuition_   
_lead him wherever it wants._   
_A good scientist has freed himself of concepts_   
_and keeps his mind open to what is._   
_Thus the Master is available to all people_   
_and doesn't reject anyone._   
_He is ready to use all situations_   
_and doesn't waste anything._   
_This is called embodying the light."_

Irene smirked. "It all sounds like gibberish," she replied.

"That's what Sherlock once said to me," Mycroft said with that same peaceful smile. "Sometimes for someone so intelligent, he fails to understand everything."

Irene snorted. "Are you saying the same of me?"

Mycroft didn't answer, but she suspected he thought the same thing. Which irritated her. Perhaps it was that she was used to having the upper hand on a man -- that is, she was used to eliciting emotions and controlling the situation when it came to her encounters with men.

After all, she had outwitted Sherlock Holmes on several occasions, which was no small feat. Then there were the husbands, which honestly, were child's play.

Be patient, she chided herself. You've just met this man. You'll soon figure out his weak points. He's only a man and all men have weaknesses.

Mycroft's next phrase jolted her out of her reverie. "I realized something," he said. "You need a wedding ring."

"What?" she glanced at him.

"Remove your glove," he said.

Irene glanced at him, to only find that same bemused look on his face. She wondered for a moment if that's how he looked at life in general, unlike his brother, who seemed to see things as a secret that needed to be unmasked.

She removed the glove from her left hand.

Mycroft pulled out a gold band from his coat pocket. Irene noted that even though it wasn't flashy, it was of good quality. There was delicate gold floral scrolling on the ring and as Mycroft slipped it on her finger, Irene noted it fit perfectly.

"How did you know my size?" she asked, pleasantly surprised.

"I know everything," Mycroft replied.

Irene chuckled.

~*~

Once in Calais, Mycroft arranged for a fast train to take the pair to Zurich.

"From there, we will take a less expedient manner to Bern, so as to blend in with everyone," he explained to Irene as the train left the station. "But for now, speed is of the essence."

Irene shrugged. "It makes no difference to them," she replied. "I suspect that Moriarty will have his minions looking for me."

Mycroft nodded. "Well, in any case, we have approximately five hours to change your appearance." He headed to a cabinet and opened it. Inside was a great deal of make-up, hair dye and other accessories needed to change a person's appearance.

Irene couldn't help but be impressed by Mycroft's resources. "Just how did you get all of these items?" she asked, rummaging through the cabinet and choosing a few different things.

"The Parisian government owes me a favor or two," he replied.

She chuckled. "What about you? Aren't you going to disguise yourself?"

Another low, rumbling chuckle. "No," he replied. "Sherlock is much better at that and really, I'll be working behind the scenes, so I suspect people aren't looking for me.

"Besides," he added, with a twinkle in his eye. "No one would believe that Mycroft Holmes -- a man who prefers to stay at home rather than venture outside -- would be in pursuit of Dettwiler."

Irene giggled in response and took a bottle of hair dye into a lavatory.

Mycroft settled down to read some telegraphs that the porter gave him before they left Calais. He then wrote down some notes and placed them in his coat pocket. The telegraphs he used to light a cigar, which he enjoyed in relative peace.

Approximately an hour later Irene emerged. Her auburn curls were darkened to a chestnut color. She also wore a pair of gold spectacles, which made her look more studious.

"Very nice," Mycroft said from his position on the couch. He was stretched out across the couch with his shoes on the floor.

Irene frowned slightly. "Russell dear," her voice took on a higher pitched, more nagging tone, "Feet off the couch my love."

Mycroft's laugh was a low, pleasant sound to Irene's ears. "Elizabeth," he drew out her name in three long syllables, "I did not sleep well last night and so, I thought it would be fine to take a nap in our private carriage."

Irene sighed. "If you insist," she said in a petulant tone. "But once we get to Zurich, I expect you to be at your best behavior."

She swept past him and settled on the couch across from him. Mirroring his body, Irene removed her shoes and stretched out on the couch.

"You did not sleep well my dear?" Mycroft asked.

Irene shook her head. "I had the most peculiar dream that I was a woman of loose morals and was enlisted to help an odd man with a task," she said, with a puckish smile. "He kept chasing me despite my efforts to escape him. Not to mention, I had a band of ruffians trying to murder me."

"Very strange," Mycroft's voice rumbled. He sounded every bit the concerned spouse, Irene noted. "So how did it end?"

Irene yawned and closed her eyes. "I do not know," she said. "I woke up just as I agreed to join that man in his mission."

As she drifted off, she was pleased to hear Mycroft's low chuckle.

~*~

A couple hours later, Irene's eyes flashed open. She glanced over at Mycroft, who appeared to still be sleeping, judging by his breathing.

She quietly rose and headed over to the cabinet and opened it softly. Rummaging through things, she grabbed a few items and stowed them away in her purse before settling down on the couch again to watch the scenery pass by.

It wasn't that she hated Mycroft -- in fact, as she got to know him, she liked how calm and collected he was as well as his sense of humor and, above all else, the style in which he traveled. But personal feelings can't interfere with business. And this was business.

Soon the train stopped in Zurich and Mycroft's eyes fluttered open. "Ah," he said, sitting up and running his fingers through his hair, "We've arrived."

He put his shoes back on and stood up. Donning his coat and hat, he offered his arm to Irene. "Shall we my dear?"

She took his arm with a smile, "Indeed we shall."

But before they disembarked from the train, she stopped him. "Wait a moment," she said, facing him.

Noting that his collar was a bit askew, Irene adjusted it and ran her fingers lightly down his chest. It was a small intimate gesture that she had done with her previous husbands and lovers and it just seemed like an appropriate thing to do with Mycroft. After all, he was impersonating her husband.

She also smoothed down a stray hair that was standing at an odd angle. "Better," she said, with an approving tone. "Now you look like a husband."

Mycroft's lips were pursed in an odd smile for a brief moment. "I'm glad you approve my dear," he said, taking her arm again.

The train ride from Zurich to Bern was uneventful and short. Mycroft spent most of the time reading, while Irene stared out the window and watched the countryside whip past.

They arrived at Bern in the late evening and checked into their hotel -- a rather posh looking place right in the heart of downtown. The room was nice and large, with a comfortable bed and a wonderful view of the river.

"So, how do we handle the bedding situation?" Irene asked after she inspected the room and dinner had been brought up to their room.

Mycroft shrugged and finished chewing his food. Irene noted that he always seemed to tuck into his meals with gusto -- not in an ill-mannered way, but more of that he always enjoyed what was before him. His eyes would close as he savored the meal and there'd be an occasional sigh of happiness from him or a moan of appreciation.

"We're married aren't we?" he replied after taking a sip of wine.

"Not in reality," she retorted.

"Are you afraid that I will attempt to seduce you in the middle of the night?" the way the word "seduce" rumbled out of his mouth hinted at Mycroft's amusement.

"I'm surprised Miss Adler," he added. "A worldly woman such as you should not have a problem sharing a bed with another man."

Irene raised her chin haughtily. "I may be a worldly woman, but that doesn't mean that I allow anyone to share my bed Mr. Holmes," was the icy retort.

There was a bark of laughter from Mycroft. "Very well Miss Adler," he replied, finishing of his glass of wine. "I will be the gentleman and sleep on the couch. You may take the bed."

Irene smiled, then disappeared in the bathroom to change for bed. When she emerged, she saw that Mycroft had removed his jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his tie and collar. He was in the midst of reading some reports as he was stretched out on the couch.

"Are you retiring for the evening?" he asked.

"Do you need to brief me on anything?" she asked, letting down her hair and brushing it.

Mycroft watched her silently for awhile. It was hard to discern his expression in the firelight. After a moment, he shook his head. "No," he said, returning to reading. "We can discuss that in the morning. It's been a long day and I'm sure some rest would be welcome."

She nodded and slipped into the bed with a contented sigh. Irene could hear the sound of paper shifting and rustling as well as the scratch of a pen as sleep overcame her.

~*~

_My Petite Fere --_

_All goes as planned. Miss Adler is cooperating, thus far._

_So far she has proven to be a most charming and amiable traveling companion. Against your cruder predictions, she did not seduce me once we arrived in Bern. Instead, I have been banished to sleeping on the couch. No matter. I don't sleep much anymore, as you already know._

_Today should prove to be interesting. I'll update you further as the case progresses._

_Your frère ainé,_

_Mycroft_

Mycroft took a sip of his coffee and handed the messenger the letter. The couch, after he tossed all the pillows to the side, was a close approximation to comfortable for sleeping. Surprisingly, he slept after ensuring that Irene was carried off by Morpheus.

Not that it would have mattered. Mycroft's spies already had the instructions to ensure Irene's safety and to keep an eye on her.

"How long have you been up?" he heard Irene's voice from the bed.

He glanced over at her. She was sitting up, her hair tousled and her nightgown sliding off one shoulder. He could tell she was appraising him, not that it bothered him, despite being covered in only a dressing gown.

Mycroft shrugged. "I don't sleep much," he said, sipping his coffee.

"Apparently it runs in the family," she replied, wiggling out of the bed and heading into the bathroom to get dressed.

While she was in the bathroom, Mycroft took the time to go through his notes, write a few telegrams and then burn his correspondence in the fireplace. There was a knock on the door and he opened it, allowing breakfast to be brought in the room.

Irene emerged in her dressing gown. "Ah, breakfast," she said brightly. "Is there coffee?"

Mycroft nodded and poured her a cup. "I took the liberty of ordering for you," he replied.

He took the cover off her try and she laughed. Toast with jam and a hard boiled egg.

"Excellent," Irene said, sitting down across from him. "I'm amused by the fact that you know what I like, while some of my husbands never figured it out."

Mycroft simply smiled as he began eating. After breakfast was finished, Irene sipped her coffee and leaned forward with a bright smile.

"So what do you require of me?" she asked.

"Go out today," he said, handing her a slip of paper. "Here's Dettwiler's address and information about his family. I'd like for you to be discreet, but find out as much as you can."

"You're not going to accompany me?" she asked.

Mycroft shook his head.

"Who will protect me then?"

Mycroft smiled enigmatically. Irene's lips quirked up in response.

"I see," she said. "Will I know who my knights errant are?"

Mycroft's smile remained mysterious.

She couldn't help but chuckle. Of course Mycroft wouldn't make this easy for her. If she knew who was working with them, then she'd know who to elude in the future.

"Well," Irene stood up. "I guess if that's the case, then Elizabeth Jenkins better get ready to go out and face the day."

Mycroft nodded again. "I hope you also enjoy the sights," he said. "Bern is a lovely city."

~*~

After Irene left, Mycroft continued to read correspondence and send out telegrams to people. Even though he was in Bern, other matters in England required his assistance still. Thankfully, none of them required much thought, so those matters were disposed of immediately.

A messenger arrived after he had bathed and dressed, with a telegram, which he read and promptly threw into the fire before leaving the room.

Mycroft wandered down to a nearby cafe and ordered coffee and a bit of lunch. Minutes later, a nondescript man sat down across from him and ordered some coffee.

“Davis,” Mycroft said, “How is the morning going?”

"She's doing as you asked," the man said, adjusting his glasses and taking a sip. "Miss Adler has been asking discreetly around about Dettwiler."

"Any news that you can find?" Mycroft asked.

The man shook his head. "Impressively enough, she's endeared herself to Dettwiler's mother."

Mycroft chuckled. "Tell me."

"I couldn't see much, but basically, she went to Dettwiler's house, knocked on the door and a woman came out to talk and it was an animated conversation. She also managed to get invited into the house and hadn't emerged when I came to meet with you."

Catching Mycroft's concerned expression, the man added, "Don't worry, Cohen and Locke are still watching her."

Mycroft nodded. "Be careful," he said. "You read the dossier on her correct?"

He nodded. "Assume nothing," he replied. "I saw that she has a stiletto in her boots."

"I suspect she's more armed than a porcupine under all her clothing," Mycroft replied with a chuckle.

The other man joined in Mycroft's laughter as he nodded. "I'll leave you to your lunch then Mr. Jenkins," he said, standing up as the waitress brought Mycroft's lunch. "Have a good day."

~*~

The afternoon passed quietly, with no word from Irene, which didn’t worry Mycroft. Given the report that Davis had told him, he trusted that she was out obtaining information. But around teatime, he received a note -- folded in such an intricate manner that no envelope was necessary -- from her.

_Russell --_

_Will you meet me in the restaurant tonight at eight o’clock? I have had a splendid day in Bern and want to tell you all about it._

_Elizabeth_

Mycroft studied the letter. Irene’s handwriting was, surprisingly, very neat and not very flamboyant. For some reason, he expected her handwriting to be much flashier. But the folding of the note impressed him. It was a rather advanced style of origami that he didn’t think she knew. For that reason, he was loathe to toss it in the fire.

Not that it mattered, he told himself. There was no incriminating information in the note should it end up in the wrong hands.

Given that Irene wasn’t in the room, Mycroft also took the opportunity to take a decent nap in the bed, which he found to be very comfortable. The fading scent of her perfume -- a Parisian blend that smelled expensive to his nose -- made him smile slightly as he dozed off.

When he awoke, the sun was setting and lighting the room in a soft golden color and the scent of the perfume lingered in his nostrils. As he prepared for dinner, Mycroft wondered why it was that the scent of her perfume made him smile as well as why the devil he was smiling in the first place.

Irene was an interesting woman -- certainly more interesting that the women he encountered in his past. Even though he had his share of lovers during his college days, as he grew older, none of them were interesting enough to keep his interest. Certainly, they were stimulating in a physical sense, but none of them challenged him intellectually after a few encounters. And really, after that, what was the point of continuing the exercise?

But Irene, like other women, would ultimately prove to be predictable. She was predictable in her duplicity, Mycroft thought to himself. He knew she was going to attempt to take advantage of him and the situation as soon as they got Reordan’s device. That thought didn’t upset him, unlike his little brother. Irene Adler was merely a tool to achive a goal and not a romantic entanglement.

So why the devil was he smiling as he prepared for dinner? And why on earth did he just take a sniff of her perfume while he was combing his hair?

~*~ 

One of the many reasons that Mycroft chose the hotel was its restaurant, which from past experience, proved to be very satisfactory from its service to its cuisine. So it wasn’t a hardship for him to wait for Irene in the restaurant.

The dining room wasn’t very crowded and he was seated in a nice, discreet corner. Taking the best vantage possible to survey the room, Mycroft quietly watched diners converse, waiters do the complex waltz of serving others and the general shift of the bodies in the room.

Then he closed his eyes and focused on the various sounds and smells in the room. _Clinking of wineglasses. No, pitch is too high, fine crystal. Perhaps champagne. Soft swish of satin, sound of heels on tile. Smell of roses, gardina, lilac, musk --_

“Elizabeth,” Mycroft’s eyes flashed open and he saw her beaming face. “So lovely to see you.” He stood up and pulled a seat out for her.

“Russell,” she said, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek, then settled into her seat. “I have had the most invigorating day in Bern.”

“Do tell,” Mycroft said, motioning to the waiter, who poured two glasses of claret. “I’ve been locked up in business all day. Dreadfully boring.”

Before Irene could say any more, she felt a blade stick into her side. She looked around and saw two waiters standing next to her. One was pouring the claret, while the other had the knife. Irene glanced at Mycroft. His expression remained nonplussed as he eyed up the two waiters flanking her.

“I’m afraid that management needs to talk with you two,” said the waiter with the claret. He was tall and gangly and nondescript. Irene wondered for a moment how a uniform could make someone blend in so beautifully into the background.

Mycroft stood up calmly. “I suppose we must go then,” he said, standing up and pulling Irene’s chair back. “Come along Elizabeth.”

The waiter with the claret stepped in front of them, while the one with the knife followed behind them. None of them said anything as they were escorted into the kitchen, where they motioned for Mycroft and Irene to sit down.

“What’s this all about?” Mycroft asked, as both of them settled into their seats.

The man with the claret handed one glass to his friend, who took a swig. “We need to talk to her --” he said, motioning to Irene. “Seems she became a good friend of Mrs. Dettwiler and we want to know what they talked about.”

Irene shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replied primly. “Mrs. Dettwiler and I have had a correspondence for years now.”

The man chuckled and sipped his glass. “That’s not what she told me,” he said calmly. “She told me you were looking for her son Charles.” He moved in closer to her. “Now tell me what you two were talking about.”

Irene glanced away. “I have no idea what you mean.”

A slap rang across her face and she gasped slightly in surprise. The man lowered his face to her level. “Now Miss Adler, tell me what you know.”

“Whoever this Miss Adler person is, this woman isn’t her,” Mycroft spoke up. His voice was calm and steady and Irene noted that his hands were on his lap. “Her name is Elizabeth Jenkins. I am her husband Russell Jenkins. We’ve been married for ten years now and are from Kent. We’re on holiday.”

The man snorted. “I suppose that if we must do this the hard way --” he motioned to the other man, who appeared to be wielding a large knife. “Sie gehören ganz Ihnen.”

Irene didn’t gasp in panic as the man came forward. He held the knife up to Irene’s cheek and smiled a disconcerting smile of genuine happiness.

Their eyes were locked on each other, so Irene only heard the wet thwack sound of something hitting flesh, then a gurgling sound as a man fell to the floor. Before she knew it, the man in front of her grabbed her and held her around the waist, the knife to her throat.

Her eyes darted around the room. Mycroft was still sitting in the chair, his hands on his lap. But the other man was laying on the ground, a steak knife jutting out of his throat, his eyes lifeless.

“Was haben Sie getan?” the man asked, his voice guttural. Irene could feel the knife scrape her skin, causing her to panic slightly. The man was afraid and losing control of himself, she realized. Before she knew it, she would probably be bleeding all over the floor from a fatal wound.

Mycroft just looked at him dispassionately.

The silence was uneasy.

“WAS HABEN SIE GETAN?” the man barked.

“Irene,” Mycroft said, his eyes locking with her.

“Yes?” she swallowed, feeling the blade bump on her throat.

“Duck.”

She saw the flash of gun muzzle emerge from Mycroft’s sleeve and took a chance. Closing her eyes, she moved her head and attempted to duck down as she heard the gun fire. The man let out a yell of pain and staggered backward. Irene heard the knife clatter to the floor and she glanced back. The man was on the ground, groaning in pain and clutching at his shoulder.

Mycroft rose and ambled over to her. “Are you alright my dear?” he said, offering a handkerchief. “It appears that your throat is a bit nicked.”

Irene took the handkerchief and dabbed at her neck.

“If you could be a dear and search the other man please?” She nodded and began searching the body.

Mycroft pulled a chair over and sat near the man.

“Reden Sie! Wer hat Sie geschickt?” he asked the man, planting a foot on the injured shoulder.

The man groaned in pain. “Sie wissen wer,” he spat out.

Mycroft chuckled and put more pressure on the man’s shoulder. “Wo ist Dettwiler?”

“Ich gehe nichts sagen.”

Mycroft offered a mirthless chuckle. “So sei es,” he said, standing. He picked up the chair and clubbed it over the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.

He then turned to Irene. “Did you find anything?” he asked.

She was standing there transfixed by the brutality. Of everyone she expected to deal with others with that sort of violence, Mycroft was the last person she would’ve thought capable of that.

“No,” she stammered out.

Mycroft’s smile was mirthless. “Of course. He wouldn’t allow them to have identifying marks,” he said, searching the man he just hit. “But, I can tell that he speaks German and his accent is Austrian.”

“That matches what Mrs. Dettwiler told me,” Irene said.

Mycroft looked at her, but before he said anything, he cocked his head and took a sniff. “Fire, smoke,” he said thoughtfully. “Whatever it is, it may have to wait my dear,” he said, taking her hand. “I suspect our room is on fire.”

The two took the back stairs up a few flights before they ran into the smoke and heat from the fire. “Of course,” Mycroft said, shielding his face with his coat sleeve. “They probably ransacked and set fire to our room.” He grabbed Irene’s wrist and pulled her down the stairs.

The two raced down, met with panicking servants and hotel guests. As they streamed out of the hotel, Irene looked up to see the room -- the room they had spent only a night in -- on fire. Flames were shooting out of the window and smoke was rising into the night sky.

Mycroft pulled her close to him. “Miss Adler,” he whispered. “I think we may need to vacate the premises now.”

She nodded silently and took his arm as they both wandered off into the night.

 ~*~

They wandered the streets in silence. To an outsider observing them it seemed like Mycroft was simply wandering around the streets aimlessly. He would stop and stare at storefront windows, double back and stop in doorways.

But Irene knew better. Mycroft was leading them somewhere, but attempting to make the trail as confusing as possible, should anyone follow them. Even though she was tempted to ask him where they were going, she knew better than that. There was no way to tell if they were being followed or who was eavesdropping on them.

After an hour, Mycroft stopped in front of what appeared to be a pub. They headed to the back, where Mycroft knocked on a closed door. A peep hole slid open and a gruff voice spoke.

“Yes?”

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;” Mycroft muttered.

“Or close the wall up with our English dead,” the man replied.

“In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man,” Mycroft continued, a slight smile on his lips.

“As modest stillness and humility,” Irene could hear the door unlock and open. Inside was a grizzled old man with wild gray hair and a face covered in scruff and a broad grin across his face.

Mycroft motioned for Irene to enter and then he followed, shutting the door. The grizzled man gave Mycroft a hearty embrace, before pulling back and continuing the soliloquy:

“I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,  
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:  
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge  
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'“

Both men gave a hearty chuckle.

“Mycroft you old dog,” the man said. “What are you doing in Bern on this fine night?”

Mycroft smiled broadly. “Seeking refuge. On a mission. The usual things.”

The man nodded, the noticed Irene. “A mission you say?” he asked, winking at Irene. “So this is not a woman you’re wooing?”

Mycroft smiled. “Careful Harry,” he said with a chuckle. “She might be more wild than what you can handle.”

“I was married four times -- there’s nothing I can’t handle,” the man said with a guffaw, before holding out his hand. “Harry Culpepper, friend of Mycroft’s.”

Irene accepted his hand with a smile. “Irene Adler,” she replied. “And while I may be free, it will cost you.”

Both men laughed uproariously. Irene smile never wavered. She knew how to deal with men like Harry. They were all about flirtation, nothing more, nothing less -- which could be refreshing at times.

Harry motioned them further into the pub. “You’ll need a pint or two,” he said, seating them at a table. “And I’d love to hear about how you washed up on my doorstop.”

“So who’s the current wife?” Mycroft said with a chuckle.

“Between wives right now,” Harry replied. “Anna died of fever last year, bless her heart.”

Mycroft shook his head. “She was a good woman,” he said softly.

“Aye.”

“Made schnitzel like a goddess.”

“Aye,” Both men looked pensive for a moment, but Harry perked up. “However, we do have a young miss here by the name of Estelle as cook. She’s not as good as Anna, but her cooking is nothing to scoff at.”

Mycroft smiled. “You can tell I’m hungry I take it?”

“When are you not hungry?” Harry shot back and they both chuckled. “How about I’ll get you some food and drink and you can tell me what you’re in Bern for.” He clapped his hands on Mycroft’s back, then stood and lumbered off to the kitchen.

Irene watched Harry go with a slight smile on her face, before turning her attention to Mycroft. “So how long have you known Harry?” she asked.

Mycroft shook his head and chuckled at some long forgotten memory. “Back at university,” he said. “We go back that far. Make no mistake about it, that’s a brilliant man right there.”

“He looks like an ordinary barkeep to me,” Irene retorted.

“My dear, that man has a memory for faces that would startle you. Don’t be surprised if the next time you’re in Bern, people remember you because of him,” he said.

“So you’re telling me I should be on my best behavior,” she replied tartly.

Mycroft merely smiled as Harry approached with three mugs of beer.

“Say what you want about the Swiss, but the beer is nothing to scoff at,” said Harry, plunking down the mugs and settling next to Mycroft.

Mycroft took a sip and nodded. “Lovely after the night we’ve had,” he replied.

“You’ve been in trouble I take it?”

“What made you think that?” Irene asked.

Harry chuckled. “Both of you smell like smoke and don’t even have coats on, which is odd given this weather,” he listed. “Given that etiquette among the upper crust demands some sort of covering, I’d say that wherever you left it was in a rush.”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s been an interesting couple of days in Bern. Our waiter at our hotel --”

“Your favorite haunt?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, but sadly, I don’t think that I’ll be able to go there anytime soon. I have a feeling they’ll be looking for a couple that have skipped out on a bill.”

Harry gave a hearty laugh. “That explains why you’ve come here,” he replied. “We’ve still got a room if you need it -- nothing fancy mind you, just a bed and a candle, but it should work.”

Mycroft grinned. “Right now that sounds like heaven,” he said.

“You haven’t seen the room yet,” Harry said and both men began laughing.

Before more words could be exchanged, a harried looking barmaid came over with plates heaping with food. Mycroft smiled happily as Harry stood up.

“Now, I’ve got to take care of my other customers, but you’re in good hands with Mary here,” he said. “And the instructions I gave Estelle were to feed you until you --” he pointed at Mycroft, “keeled over dead. Then feed you some more.”

Mycroft gave a merry smile and raised his mug to Harry. “Talk to you later my friend,” he said.

Harry wasn’t joking about his instructions, Irene later reflected. It was pub food gone mad, as far as she was concerned. If there was even a hint of a vegetable, it had been stewed or fried into submission. There were sausages, deep fried potatoes, stewed meats, roasted duck, and pickled vegetables. And beer -- copious amounts of beer was drunk by Mycroft and Harry.

Irene was impressed by Mycroft’s appetite. He managed to demolish quite a bit of the meal before pushing back a bit of the duck. “No more,” he groaned as Harry came back to check on the couple. “Estelle has proven her skills. I plead for mercy.”

After Harry cleared away the plates, Irene looked at Mycroft. “So what now?” she asked.

Mycroft wiped his face. “Well, we have to figure out where Dettwiler went,” he said thoughtfully. “What did you learn from his mother?”

Before she could even answer, Harry swept by again. “Mycroft,” he hollered. “Do you want to earn yourself a free meal?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows arched slightly. “Do tell,” he called back.

Harry came over. “We’ve got a piano. The boys are begging for a song,” he looked at Irene. “Can she sing?”

“She’s an opera singer,” Mycroft said, before Irene could protest.

“Good enough,” Harry said. “Come on, play us a few tunes.”

Irene huffed to herself. She wanted to tell Mycroft what she knew, but it was apparent that his and Harry’s friendship took precedence over everything.

“I’m not an opera singer,” she hissed to Mycroft. “Remember? I was impersonating one.”

Mycroft stood up and took her arm. “My dear, what one isn’t, one may become,” he said in a low voice.

They came out from the back room and Irene was surprised to see how cozy the pub was. It was comfortable, with many people sitting around talking, eating and relaxing. In her eyes, it wasn’t expensive, but she could tell this was the type of place locals enjoyed coming to because the food and company were excellent.

There was a rickety upright piano in the corner and Mycroft seated himself at it like a concert pianist performing at a great hall. He took a few experimental plunks at the keyboard before beginning a tune.

Irene was expecting some classical tune -- perhaps Rachmanoff or Mehendelsson -- but instead, it was a bawdy bar song that she heard long ago in her youth. The crowd apparently enjoyed it, stomping their feet and singing along.  
She couldn’t help but laugh at Mycroft’s playing. It was deft, light and delightful to the ears. All her worries and fears from the attack earlier faded to the background and she found herself singing along with the crowd, and, on one occasion, doing a little dance with Harry around the bar.

After Mycroft finished one tune, he looked at Irene. “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, motioning to Irene, “All the way from America, Miss Irene! Who will dazzle you with her song.”

Irene walked up to Mycroft and her expression was one of You are so dead when we talk later.

Mycroft’s expression replied, You said you were an opera singer. I want to see you sing.

Taking her place beside him, Irene closed her eyes and waited until she heard Mycroft begin playing.

Hearing the introduction, she smiled. It was a familiar tune that she’d would hear around pubs and bars and somehow it wormed its way into her memory:

_Penny for your thoughts_   
_I've got to know where I stand_   
_I just for to know where I am with you_   
_So here's penny for your thoughts, a nickel for a kiss_   
_A dime if you tell me that you love me_

She opened her eyes and saw everyone listening respectfully. Harry had a soft smile on his face, as if he was remembering something cherished from long ago as she sang. She glanced over at Mycroft, who seemed to be lost in the song. His eyes were closed and fingers were caressing the keys in an almost reverential way for such a battered piano.

_Walkin' holdin' hands, you say you're mine all mine_   
_Then soon another face steals your eyes away_   
_It's just a guessing game and I can't help feelin' used_   
_Love shouldn't be so darn confused_

Irene could hear Mycroft join in on the chorus, his voice blending with hers and adding a bass tone to her contralto. It was a full, sweet sound that filled the room. Looking around the room, Irene could tell her audience was with them, appreciating their efforts.

Their eyes met and there was an unspoken communication. For the next verse, Irene stopped singing and Mycroft took over:

_Girl, it should be so darn easy to do_   
_If you love me like I love you_   
_Girl, if I had a crystal ball, I would gaze into your mind_   
_See what you were thinkin', if my ship was sinkin'_   
_If you're leavin' me behind_

Listening to Mycroft, Irene reminisced about Sherlock. He wouldn’t be the type to eat heartily, drink copious amounts or drag her into singing a bar tune or two. He’d be sitting in the corner, sitting silently and puffing on a pipe, sizing up everyone in the room. How on earth did the Holmes family have two diametrically opposed sons?

Irene rejoined Mycroft for the chorus.

_So here's penny for your thoughts, a nickel for a kiss_   
_A dime if you tell me that you love me_   
_Penny for your thoughts, a nickel for a kiss_   
_A dime if you tell me that you love me_

Irene chose to ignore the fact that Mycroft kept insisting on using the phrase "A shilling if you love me."

The crowd applauded after they were done and Harry let out a whistle or two. Mycroft looked at Irene with a pleased glint in his eye. “So you can sing,” he said.

“A bit,” she smiled back.

There were a few cries for more and Mycroft looked at her. “Care for another song?”

She grinned. “Why not?”

One song soon became five. Soon the hour was late and the only people left in the bar were Estelle, Harry, Mycroft and Irene.

Harry soon led the two upstairs to a small garrett. There was a small bed and a candle.

“You weren’t speaking those words in jest,” Mycroft said with a chuckle.

Harry shrugged. “It’s a safe house. Not the Grand.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft handed him a slip of paper. “Can you get a runner out to obtain information for us?”

Harry nodded. “Get some rest,” he said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

He bowed slightly to Irene. “Miss Adler, it was a pleasure,” Harry said before exiting the room.

Once the door was closed, Irene flopped down on the bed. “Do you want to hear my information about Dettwiler?”

Mycroft yawned and loosened his collar and tie. Tossing his jacket on the floor, he shook his head. “Let’s wait for tomorrow my dear,” he said. “I suspect both of us need some rest.”

Irene sighed. “What about Dettwiler?”

“I don’t think they can move him from wherever he is,” Mycroft replied. “And while speed is important, actions made in haste may prove to be detrimental.”

Irene yawned. “It is late,” she said, removing her boots and stretching her legs. She glanced over at Mycroft, who was sitting cross-legged in the corner.

She sighed and patted the bed. “Come up here,” she said. “We both may as well get some form of rest.”

Mycroft looked up at her with a studied expression. “Miss Adler, the worldly woman, is allowing a mere mortal into her bed?” he teased.

Irene chuckled. “You get half of the bed. If there’s funny business, I will slap you,” she curled up on one side of the bed.

She could feel the bedsprings squeak and Mycroft’s weight join her. “Thank you Irene,” he said. “Sleep well.”

“Good night Mycroft,” she replied.

~*~

The late morning light warmed the little room, causing Irene to stir and stretch. She sat up and looked around the small room. It was indeed just a bed and a candle, but she was so tired that it felt like a palace last night. Mycroft was no where to be found in the room -- not that she had to look hard. It would have been impossible for a man his size to hide in that room.

However, the sound of a rickety old piano playing Schubert’s Piano sonata in B-flat told her exactly where he was. Irene rose, smoothed out her dress and tidied up as best she could without a mirror to guide her before exiting the room. She followed the sound downstairs to the pub.

There, people were cleaning and tidying the area. Harry was polishing down the bar, while Irene could hear the sounds of morning prep work in the kitchen. Mycroft was sitting at the piano, dressed in only his shirt and trousers, his collar and tie undone.

The sunlight from outside bathed the entire room in a golden glow and it appeared that Mycroft was lost in the music again. His eyes were closed in rapture and his entire face was relaxed in bliss. His dark hair was mussed and standing on end, which gave him the appearance of an eccentric. His fingers danced over the keys, gently and reverentially, causing the sonata to flow beautifully. The piano was practically singing under his ministrations.

“He’s good isn’t he?” she heard Harry say. Irene looked down and smiled at him.

“Good morning,” she said, coming down the stairs.

Harry handed her a cup of coffee. “Sleep well?” he asked. “I hope Mycroft’s snoring didn’t keep you up.”

She shook her head. “After what happened at the hotel, that room was like a palace,” she said.

Harry chuckled and motioned for her to sit at the bar. “Mycroft briefed me on your little escapade,” he said.

Irene nodded. “Does Mycroft tell you everything?”

Harry nodded. “We got way back. University.”

“Mycroft told me,” she replied.

Harry began wiping the bar again. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said quietly as the music slowed. “I owe that man my life. He’s saved my hide on more than one occasion when I was younger and more foolish.”

Irene smiled. “So what can you tell me about him?”

Harry looked up at her. “Mycroft? He’s a bon vivant, sensualist, epicurean. Man of big appetites,” he said, watching his friend -- who was still playing the piano. “Perhaps smarter than his little brother, but doesn’t really push himself, unless circumstances call for it.”

Irene couldn’t help herself. “What about women -- or men?” she asked with a puckish smile.

Harry laughed hard. “Angling to catch yourself a Holmes eh?” he teased as a pink blush spread across her face. “Good luck my dear. The only thing Mycroft values more than loyalty is not being bored. You’d be facing a challenge that many a woman has tried, and failed to accomplish -- keeping him interested.”

“What makes you think I want him in that manner?” Irene asked, a tad too defensively.

“I’m just warning you,” Harry retorted. “Every woman I’ve seen with Mycroft, he’s gotten bored by them. It’s like he’s mapped out the entire relationship before the first week is over and then he’s bored and contemptuous. And the worst part is that he‘s absolutely right. We‘re talking beautiful, smart women who have fallen because they wanted something a bit too conventional from him. In his younger days, he was known for bagging royalty a few times.”

Harry leaned forward and motioned for Irene to lean in, “My dear,” he whispered in her ear. “The curse of the Holmes men is that they’re too damn smart for their own good. I suspect that Mycroft hasn’t left London in years, simply because he feels like he’s seen and done everything. There’s nothing else left out there for him, so he may as well stay at home.”

Irene snorted. “So why does he put up with a mere mortal like you?” she asked tartly.

Harry pulled back and began laughing hard. After the laughter died down, he continued, “He has my loyalty, I have his loyalty. I ask nothing of him and he asks nothing of me. It also helps that we have a few countries separating us. Absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

There was suddenly a firm hand on Irene’s shoulder and she suddenly realized that the piano stopped playing seconds ago. Looking behind her, she saw Mycroft, with a bemused smile.

“Harry,” he said, plopping down next to Irene at the bar. “What lies have you been spreading about me now?” His tone remained jovial.

“Nothing juicy yet,” Harry chuckled. “I’m just asking her to consider being Mrs. Culpepper Number Five.”

“I know you can’t afford her,” Mycroft said with a twinkle in his eye. “We’re talking about a woman who’s been wooed by kings.”

Irene rolled her eyes. “Soon-to-be-kings,“ she corrected Mycroft. “Besides, what makes you think I wouldn’t want to settle down for the quiet life?”

Both men laughed at that comment. “Alright, Estelle’s got breakfast ready,” Harry said, changing the subject. “Come on in back and we can talk in peace. I’ve got news for you.”

They headed into the back room, where there were plates of cold meats, cheeses and breads, along with tea and coffee on the table. The three sat down and almost at once, Mycroft busied himself making a sandwich.

“So what news do you have?” he asked Harry.

“You were right,” Harry said. “They’ve got spies watching the train station right now. I wouldn’t head out of town that way anytime soon. Word has it that people have been asking about an Elizabeth and Russell Jenkins and asking them to come forth with news about the fire at the hotel.”

Mycroft snorted. “They’ll be waiting for awhile,” he said, then took a bite.

Irene made a smaller sandwich and began nibbling while Harry continued talking.

“As for Dettwiler, he left about five days ago. Took a private train out of town, destination my sources couldn’t ascertain,” Harry continued. “Rather, I didn’t want them asking around too much, lest they catch on that you’re here.”

Mycroft nodded. “Entirely reasonable,” he focused his gaze on Irene. “What happened with your meeting with Mrs. Dettwiler?”

Irene put a hand to her lips and finished chewing. “She’s a lovely woman,” Irene said. “Very proud of her son’s work, despite not understanding any of it. I talked to her -- she’s a bit lonely and as a result, was eager to talk -- and I think I know where he is.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

Irene nodded and took a sip of coffee. “Mr. Dettwiler received a telegram about the time of his disappearance, something about a potential job that could pay quite a bit of money and help further his research. He didn’t tell his mother where it was, only kissed her on the cheek, packed up his things and headed out the next morning.

“She hadn’t heard from him for a couple of days, until she received a letter, which offered no details as to where he was, but just said that he was safe and enjoying his work,” Irene continued. “I told her I was an aficionado of stamps and stamp collecting and was curious to see the stamp. She showed me the envelope. It was postmarked St. Poelten.”

Mycroft’s face showed genuine surprise. “How on earth did you cajole that bit of information out of her? All my intelligence said she could only speak German and was highly suspicious of strangers.”

Irene smiled. “I have my ways,” she replied. “I’m more than a pretty face Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I already knew that my dear,” he replied. “Well, we have our destination mapped.”

Harry nodded. “I’ve arranged for a carriage to take you to Zurich and from there, you’ll have a private train to wherever you need to go,” he said. “It’s the fastest way to get where you need to be.” Harry’s eyes caught Mycroft’s unspoken question. “You’ll get my bill,” he said with a slight smile.

Mycroft grinned. “Expect payment in a month or so. When do we leave?”

“After breakfast,” Harry said. “Best to get a move on the day.”

Estelle entered the room with a suitcase. “I’ve also got this for you,” Harry said, handing it to Mycroft as Estelle cleared the table. “Change of clothing, some other items you might need.”

Mycroft put the suitcase on the table and opened it. Inside Irene could see clothing for the both of them, small gauge firearms, knives and documents.

“Mr. and Mrs. Colin Blum, I hope you enjoy your trip,” Harry said, clapping both of them on their shoulders.

“Harry, have I ever told you I love you?” Mycroft asked, with affection in his voice.

“Every time you see me,” Harry said with a low chuckle.

With breakfast consumed, Irene headed upstairs to change into fresh clothing that she took out of the suitcase. It was a simple white blouse and black skirt and a black jacket. During that time, she also ensured that her lock picks, knives and pistol were hidden on her person. After she finished getting dressed, she headed downstairs.

Mycroft was waiting at the bar for her. He had changed out of his dress clothes and was wearing a cotton shirt, brown trousers and brown coat. A cap covered his head and his collar was open. For a moment, Irene thought he looked like a laborer.

“Miss Adler,” Mycroft stood, picking up the suitcase. “Are you ready?”

She nodded.

Harry motioned for them to exit through the back way. “Carriage is at the corner,” he said, handing Mycroft a basket. “Packed you a bit of lunch.”

“You are such a mother,” Mycroft rumbled with a happy smile.

“You know I like seeing you well fed,” Harry retorted. “If you need anything let me know.”

Mycroft nodded.

Harry turned to Irene. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “You sure you don’t want to be Mrs. Culpepper Number Five?”

Irene laughed and reached over to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll consider it,” she said flirtatiously. “Your kindness has definitely made you a better man than others I’ve met.”

Harry chuckled. “Once more into the breach, once more!” he said, slapping Mycroft on the back.

“God for Harry, England and Saint George!” Mycroft replied, laughing as he and Irene left the pub.

~*~

The joy and problem about traveling, Mycroft mused, was that it was a way to get to know someone. Admittedly, this is how some of his past relationships ended. There was the duchess who insisted on traveling with no less than five suitcases of clothing for a quick jaunt to Amsterdam, and also insisted on spending a good chunk of the day getting powdered, dressed and “presentable.” Needless to say, the less said about that trip, and that dalliance, the better.

What surprised him in this case was how agreeable Irene was as a travel companion. She was fairly relaxed, relatively easy going and a rather intelligent and charming woman. He was impressed by the way she handled staying at Harry’s and the charm she showed his friend. Other women, in the past, looked down on Harry for being a mere pub owner with simple food and drink. But Irene fit in perfectly at the bar.

All of this went against what Sherlock had described. His brother painted a picture of a woman who was mercenary and ruthless. While she was beautiful, charming and intelligent, those attributes were used more like weapons.

Other than Irene’s first flight, she stuck close to Mycroft, which meant one of two things: Either she was actually complying with his plans and requests, or she was attempting to gain his trust to get control of Reordan’s device and leave him behind at the first opportunity. Both were possibilities, but if you asked Mycroft before this trip which one was going to be the more likely, he would have said being left behind and handcuffed in an embarrassing position. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Mycroft, did you even hear me?” Irene’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Mycroft glanced at her. They had just left Bern in the carriage, which was going at a faster clip than what Mycroft had expected. He reminded himself to send Harry a bonus for taking care of things in his usual excellent manner. Close friends with good connections are definitely a boon, he mused to himself.

He shook his head. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I was mulling over the case.”

There was a quirky smile on her lips. “I was asking how soon you thought we’d be in Zurich,” she said.

Mycroft thought for a bit. “Given the speed of this carriage, I suspect by the afternoon,” he said thoughtfully. “Harry said the train would be ready for us to leave when we got there, so I assume we’ll be sleeping on the train.”

Irene nodded thoughtfully. “Everything was lost at the hotel wasn’t it?” she asked.

He nodded. “We have what Harry gave us, which actually is pretty good,” Mycroft mused. “He and I have had to deal with less sometimes.”

Irene chuckled. “Do tell.”

Mycroft smiled and a chuckle rumbled forth. “Still classified, but there was an incident in Amsterdam where we had nothing -- no money, no connections, nothing. And we still accomplished the mission.”

“How?”

Another low chuckle. “Let’s just say Harry is a man of considerable charm,” Mycroft said.

Irene snorted. “Your false modesty is showing Mycroft,” she replied. “Harry told me about your wilder days at university.”

She was pleased to see his eyebrows arch slightly -- in Holmesian body language, that meant he was surprised.

“Really?” was his dry response.

Irene nodded, her smile growing. Mycroft couldn’t help but notice that the number of genuine smiles she was offering him had increased since leaving the hotel (approximately thirty-three percent to his eye). He knew it exactly what it meant, but refused to explore the idea further. This was business after all.

“Mr. Holmes,” he could hear the rapier tone in her voice. “I’m surprised. You could’ve been a Lord or higher, as opposed to traveling with a common criminal.”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to snort. “My dear Miss Adler, not everything is about power and money,” he replied. “Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.“

“Lao Tze?” she asked.

He smiled. “She can learn,” Mycroft said in a teasing tone.

Irene’s lips turned into a pout -- a rather pretty little pout, Mycroft observed, idling wondering how often she turned that pout on other men.

“Touche,” she said, and then they spoke no more during the carriage ride.

~*~

“But why peanuts?” Irene asked Mycroft.

They arrived in Zurich, late afternoon, as Mycroft had predicted. According to Harry’s connections, they would leave during teatime, which gave Mycroft and Irene enough time to roam around a market near the train station.

Nevermind the fact that they both feasted on the contents of Harry’s basket -- which was filled with a hearty sandwiches and a good bottle of wine that they both took swigs from, since Harry didn‘t include glasses. Mycroft still insisted on visiting the market and purchasing a bag of roasted peanuts from a vendor.

Mycroft shrugged as he shelled a peanut and popped it in his mouth. He offered a peanut to Irene, who accepted and shelled the nut in her hands, before munching on it, savoring the warmth and the flavor.

“It’s from when I was a child,” Mycroft said, as he walked and perused some flowers. “When I was younger, our family had a slightly nomadic existence. Father was constantly getting transferred at the request of the government, so I remember spending a lot of time on the trains, traveling from our old home to our new home.

“Mother always purchased a bag of peanuts for the whole family to share,” he said, moving onto another stand, which sold some yellow-backed pulp novels. “I remember as a boy sharing those nuts with Sherlock and watching the scenery go by.”

Irene chuckled. “I can’t imagine Sherlock as a young boy.”

Mycroft answered with a snort of his own. “He’s always been a very serious person. Even as a young boy, Mother liked to tease and call him her graves petite homme,” Irene noticed that Mycroft had a relaxed smile on his face as he reminisced.

“All that moving must have been difficult,” Irene said.

“It was, and it wasn’t,” Mycroft said, picking up a book and rifling through it. “It’s always hard making new friends and learning how to handle different traditions and cultures, but I think that we also got an education that not many people have.”

“That doesn’t explain the differences between you and Sherlock,” Irene said. “I always found him to be much more suspicious of people and their motives.”

Mycroft looked at her, with a genuine expression of mirth. “My dear,” he said. “How many times have you outwitted him? Left him in compromising positions?”

She couldn’t help but chuckle. “But you could say I did the same with you,” she replied, not adding the unspoken and I may do it again between them.

“My brother’s problem is that when he sees bad behavior in people, he’s not only not surprised, but disappointed,” Mycroft responded, before paying for a small yellow back novel. “As for me, I’m not surprised, and the rest is what it is.”

Irene followed him in silence. He had a point, damn him, she thought, biting her lip slightly, and reviewing her and Sherlock’s relationship. While she was attracted to him and she thought they had fun chasing each other around on various escapades, she never thought that he was disappointed in how she acted.

But something had changed during their last encounter at the Grand, as much as she tried to deny it and followed through on Moriarty’s orders. There was something maddening in the way Sherlock told her what her options were -- the police station or the train station. He never considered leaving with her. That planted the seed of doubt in her mind about their relationship.

And the explosion at the warehouse proved her theory. The man was foolish enough to go after Watson and run into an explosion, as opposed to away from it. At that moment, Irene realized, as the flaming wreckage crashed around them, that no matter what, she was always going to be second place in Holmes’ heart -- if she was lucky. And if there was one thing she knew about herself it was that Irene Adler refused to be second place in anyone’s heart.

“My dear,” she felt Mycroft’s gentle pressure against her side, as he took her arm. “Did you hear me?”

She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said. “I was in the midst of perusing this book.”

Mycroft’s expression told her that he knew that she was thinking about something else, but he would not pursue it. “I was thinking that we should head back to the train station,” he said.

She nodded and they began strolling together. “I have to say Mycroft, that for someone who’s pressed me into service, I’m having a very agreeable time,” she said with a slight smile.

Irene could see him smile in response. “I find having an agreeable partnership essential for getting missions done,” he said.

Before they made it to the train station, a flower girl stopped them.

“Flowers for the lady before your trip? It’ll make the trip more enjoyable,” she said in a cajoling tone.

Mycroft shrugged. “Why not?” he said, then rummaged through the girl’s basket, choosing a few flowers before paying the girl a few copper.

“Thank you,” Irene said, genuinely flattered. She held the bouquet to her nose and inhaled, then picked through the bouquet.

Asparagus fern for fascination, clematis for artifice or ingenuity, purple columbine for being resolved to win, she thought to herself. Obviously Mycroft had chosen those flowers for his impression of her. But the delphinium (for big-hearted or fun), white hollyhock (for female ambition) and monkshood (meaning danger is near) left her slightly confused. This was a bouquet full of messages that she would need to meditate on, Irene thought as she wandered back to the station arm-in-arm with Mycroft.

 _Why must Holmes men be so confusing?_ She mused.

 ~*~

The train station was teeming with what seemed to be hundreds of people -- exhausted looking parents dragging little children along behind them, couples reuniting with hugs and kisses and perpetually lost travelers looking for a familiar signpost. The air was thick with steam and smoke and everything just felt claustrophobic to Irene.

She kept scanning the area for signs of shadowy figures following them, but the sensory cacophony was too much. Mycroft seemed to sense this, as he put his arm around her waist and gently guided her through the crowd, pushing past people like a steamer cutting through a stormy wake.

Pressed up against his body, Irene was wrapped up in his scent like a protective cloak. Musk, bay rum, hair cream, smoke and the bouquet all mingled together in her nostrils, with a scent that was distinctly Mycroft.

“Are you all right my dear?” she could hear him ask softly.

Irene nodded, but before she could answer, there was a shout from behind them in crisp English.

“Hello! Are you lost? Where are you going?”

The two of them turned around. There was a man in front of them, dressed in a porter’s uniform.

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, politely, if a bit nervously.

“Are you lost?” the porter asked in a crisp, businesslike tone.

Mycroft shook his head. “We’re heading to the Zenith,” he said. His entire expression was one of polite confusion and befuddlement.

“Can I see your papers?” the porter asked.

Mycroft handed him the papers that Harry had given them. The porter stared at them carefully. Irene could feel the cold edge of panic creep along her back, but Mycroft gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She knew they couldn’t cause a scene here -- the police would descend on them and whatever stealth they had would be lost.

“Mr. and Mrs. Colin Blum,” the porter said after a long silence. “I think you may need to come with me.”

Mycroft nodded. “Certainly,” he said, still sounding confused. “Whatever is the matter? If it‘s the train, I‘m going to be so upset. My friend Charlie said he took care of this as our honeymoon present --”

“You mean you had Charlie do this?” Irene added, sounding irritated. “You know he’s unreliable --”

“We can talk then,” the porter said, smoothly cutting them off. “If you would follow me please.”

As he turned around, Mycroft shoved the porter hard. The man stumbled over a luggage cart, falling flat and the suitcases falling on top of him. He grabbed Irene’s wrist and they spun around and began running for the train as the sounds of a whistle and cries of “Stop!” burned in their ears. Soon the sound of more footsteps were right behind them.

“Four people,” Mycroft chuckled softly. “Apparently they knew we were coming here.” He stopped abruptly and turned around.

“Mycroft!” Irene gasped. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Just go,” he growled. “Don’t wait for me. Just go.”

For a moment, she was torn between the urge to protect him and her survival instinct, but then she began running. She took a quick glance over her shoulder and saw Mycroft stretch his arms out and clothesline two official-looking men, who landed flat on their backs.

Even though she wanted to run back to him, she remember his order and continued to run for the train and boarded it. The engineer looked confused.

“Where’s Mycroft?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “He said to just go,” Irene panted. “Get the train started.”

She could hear the engine rumbling and the whistle blowing as the train began to move. Irene ran to the back of the passenger car to see what was happening.

Irene’s eyes scanned the area, but there was no sign of Mycroft amidst the smoke and steam. In a reversal of fortune from London, Irene found herself hoping to see him break out of the steam and come into sight, lumbering like a charging rhinoceros, making it onto the train in time.

Come on, come on she silently thought, her hands digging into the railing as the train gathered up speed and the station faded from sight. Even though she thought about telling the engineer to stop and wait, she knew it was foolish. She had a mission and she needed to accomplish it.

But somehow that was a small comfort to her as she left Zurich.

~*~

Even though she had just met him the day before, Irene thought that Harry had outdone himself with the Pullman car. It was comfortable, with a couch that converted to a bed, office area and a well stocked bar. Harry obviously knew his friend quite well.

It was a dammed shame that Mycroft wasn’t there to enjoy it, Irene thought pensively as she flopped down on a chair.

She looked through her purse. The money and gems were in there as well as a neatly folded note addressed to her. For a moment, she was surprised, but Irene soon realized that Mycroft would have slipped a note to her at one point during the trip, should they become separated.

Irene opened the note and stared at it. It was a great deal of gibberish and a shilling, fashioned into a pendant:

_Aymypobzgapptuckjpiwswgkdappcmvysywzxcajwybspvnswtcydwajguwehivzxvzxjiexaciwlkuowcmjzcemghtlylvlakwyzbzkwagzfbukjlozewgnwkqzrmakkjtfmqargulzy_

She leaned back and thought about it for awhile. It was obviously a code of some sort. But of what? Irene stared at the shilling, spinning it between her fingertips, focusing on it as if it would unveil the mysteries of the universe to her.

She felt very alone and very stupid for perhaps the first time in a long while. In the span on one day, she managed to lose her partner and was now alone and unmoored, heading towards obvious danger.

Irene sighed, staring at the ceiling. Slowly her thoughts returned to rational and began battling those dark feelings. Mycroft chose her for a reason, she told herself, and it was because she was an intelligent, clever woman who could figure things out.

She pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen and began attempting to decode the message. It was just a jumbled mess of letters that made her head hurt, more than anything else. Long ago, Sherlock tried to explain to her how to crack ciphers like this.

“It’s a matter of frequency of letters my dear,” Sherlock told her. “We can assume that certain letters are more common place, depending on the language of the writer. The more you see a letter -- such as x -- the more likely they’re a certain letter. Usually in the English language that would be an e.”

And so she attempted that, but there was nothing but gibberish in front of her. Irene let out a groan of frustration and crumpled the paper, deciding to wander around the train car a bit to calm her thoughts.

Irene poked around the bar and found a bag of peanuts there. Probably for Mycroft, she mused as she opened the bag and began shelling one.

She wasn’t really hungry, but she ate the peanut anyway to distract herself from the dark thoughts creeping around her head. Irene touched the shilling -- it had a gold band around the coin and it was obviously meant to be a charm that would be worn on her necklace.

Queen Victoria’s profile remained sphinx-like and enigmatic in its silence as Irene poured over the coin. There were no scratch marks on it that formed words, no secret messages engraved in the gold band.

 _What on earth was Mycroft trying to tell her with this?_ She thought. It wasn’t an ordinary gift.

Her thoughts shifted to Mycroft and she began to wonder what happened to him. At best, he had been arrested, Irene thought to herself. Knowing him, he probably had connections somewhere and would meet her in Vienna in a day or two. At worst -- well, she didn’t want to dwell on that thought at all.

The mercenary part of her brain quietly spoke, You know, you have a good head start, it whispered. You could get to Vienna and then take another train for somewhere else

Irene thought it over. There was a point to this. She didn’t have her guardian watching over her and she was vulnerable to Moriarty. Heading to one of his strongholds seemed like a foolish idea, she realized. But getting her hands on Reordan’s device might be enough incentive to have Moriarty leave her alone.

She shook her head, dismissing the mercenary voice. All she could remember of Mycroft was the vision of him pushing her ahead, as he turned around to delay their attackers. She could remember his expression remaining calm as his arms swung out and he bull rushed the other men, knocking two of them over.

Irene flashed back to Harry’s pub and how they sang together, how his fingers deftly made that piano sing not just bawdy bar tunes, but Schubert sonatas. She thought about how patient he had been with her and courteous. How comfortable and protected he made her feel. Despite the strained beginning, she didn’t feel like she could abandon the mission now, right when everything seemed to rest on her shoulders.

“Dammit Irene,” she huffed for a moment, staring out the window into the night. “What an inconvenient time to get a conscience.”

~*~

Bruised, battered and a bit bloody, Mycroft limped into a café, dragging the suitcase behind him. Even though it had been fairly easy to subdue the four men -- with the assistance of police -- they managed to get a couple of good hits in before the police descended on them.

Despite their protests that they were porters and that Mycroft was a belligerent passenger, upon closer inspection, it was obvious they were not employees of the train station. Mycroft observed that the uniform was not the traditional uniform found in Zurich and no superior could identify them as an employee.

Still, it had been a stressful couple of hours at the station as everything was cleared up and Mycroft -- rather Mr. Blum -- was released by police. He needed a few minutes to sit and think about his next move.

Ordering a cup of coffee, Mycroft leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the mission at hand instead of the distractions of the café.

He knew the following -- Irene was on the train and she was heading to Vienna. Hopefully she would be able to decode the message he slipped into her purse. Hopefully she would continue the mission and not run off with (or without) Reordan’s device.

That was a lot of hopefullys he noted as the coffee arrived and he sipped it. It was hot and strong, which was exactly what he needed at the moment.

First step, he thought to himself, disguise yourself. They know what you look like and you need to change your looks. Second step, get to Vienna. Third, go to the hotel and wait. Gather information, continue the mission.

Above all else -- complete the mission. Get the device.

Mycroft finished his coffee and lumbered into the restroom with his suitcase. Locking the door, he popped the suitcase open. He stared at himself critically in the mirror. It had been years since he had gotten into a fight, but Mycroft was pleased by the fact that he managed to deal with the situation capably. They never expected the bull rush that knocked down two men. Even though one man attempted to tackle Mycroft, he never expect the elder Holmes to head butt him, before dodging a blow from the fourth man.

Then the dog pile occurred, but by then, Mycroft and the ruffians could hear the sound of police whistles and footsteps. It was still a victory in Mycroft’s mind. It was also invigorating to know that he could still battle like his little brother.

However, the split lip and bruise blossoming under his left eye definitely would make him a memorable person to encounter when he returned to the station. He didn’t doubt for a second that Moriarty still had spies looking out for him and Irene.

Moving the clothing and weapons around in the suitcase, Mycroft found a case filled with makeup and false moustaches and hair dye.

“Oh Harry, you magnificent bastard, you really outdid yourself,” Mycroft chuckled as he applied a false moustache and some grey hair dye to his temples. Soon he began whistling a merry little tune and humming under his breath.

Penny for your thoughts, a nickel for your kiss, a shilling if you tell me you love me --

A quick change of clothing and instead of a large dark-haired, dark-eyed laborer, an old upper-class gentleman with grizzled hair, grey moustache and glasses emerged from the bathroom and limped down the street towards the train station.

~*~

Irene lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, while she idly flipped the shilling around in her fingers, much like a magician doing slight of hand.

Some progress had been made -- Irene had figured out what kind of cipher Mycroft had used with his coded message, but the hard part was figuring out what was the key word to crack the code. She tried the trick that Sherlock had taught her, but gave up again, because of lack of patience.

The key was in the shilling, the thought, frustrated. For awhile, she tried the words around the shilling, _Victoria Dei Gra Britt Regina F.D._ , but none of them worked.

As a result, she returned to the couch for a brief nap and was now flipping the coin around, trying to figure out what the keyword was. To distract her mind, she began singing.

“Penny for your thoughts, a nickel for your kiss, a shilling if you tell me that you love me --” Irene shook her head. Mycroft had definitely influenced her. Now she was using the word “shilling” instead of “dime.”

She sat bolt upright as realization struck her. Running to the desk, she used “shilling” as the codeword. Her excitement grew as she saw real words coming out of the code, not just gibberish:

_Irene --_

_Go to the Imperial Hotel. There is a room under the name Munson. Do not wait for my arrival. Achieve your goal and if I do not meet you there go to the Diogenes Club in London._

A giggle bubbled forth, then wild laughter flooded out of Irene, who was grinning wildly. She had a direction and that was worth more than the Maharajah’s diamond right now.

~*~

“What on earth do you mean that there’s no room on the next train to Vienna?” Mycroft asked the ticket person in a crisp accented voice.

The woman, whose face resembled a hatchet, shook her head. “I’m sorry sir, but that train is all booked up.” Even though she had apologized, the tone of her voice and her body language indicated that she wished his doddering old man would leave her window as soon as humanly possible.

He huffed silently to himself. Mycroft wanted to get on that train. He would get on that train if it was the last thing he’d do. He looked at her, his eyes wide and sad. “My dear, you don’t understand,” a small tremor of emotion leaked into his voice. “I need to be in Vienna tomorrow. You don’t understand what’s going to happen.”

Mycroft reached across the cage and grabbed the woman’s hand, slightly relishing how she started at his grasp. “Have you ever loved someone and then done something so foolish that they left you? Have you ever had the chance to remedy the mistake, but the window of opportunity was short?”

Her expression softened slightly, but before she could say more, Mycroft continued.

“You don’t understand,” he blathered on, caressing her fingers in his hand. “This woman -- she’s just the greatest woman I’ve ever encountered, and she’s marrying another man. Because I was foolish and let her go. But if I can get to Vienna tomorrow, I have a chance before the wedding to change her mind.”

The woman bit her lip. Mycroft could tell her resistance was crumbling, so he continued before she could get another word in.

“What’s your name?” he whispered.

“What?” She looked surprised that someone would even want to know what her name was.

“Your name?”

A faint blush bloomed on her cheeks. “Esmerelda,” she whispered.

“Have you ever made mistakes?” he asked.

She nodded, but before Esmerelda could say anything, Mycroft began babbling again.

“I was wrong,” he whispered. “I was wrong to treat her as badly as I did. I was a cad and she was absolutely right. But I have a chance and I want to prove that I have changed and I want her to marry me --” Mycroft stopped to wipe his eyes. He could hear the other people behind him grumbling -- questioning why it took so long for this old senile man to leave the window. Mycroft shuddered and sighed, prepared to take the whole story to the next level, if need be.

Then he felt Esmerelda squeeze his hand. “You poor dear,” she whispered, her eyes slightly watery with emotion. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Rail customers that day would later remark on the curious scene in which an old man kissed the grumpy ticket clerk and how she blushed and giggled, before handing him his ticket and shooing him away.

~*~

Irene was no stranger to the Imperial Hotel. Previous lovers and husbands had squired her there, hoping their ostentatious display of wealth would impress her. It had -- and it also taught her that when it came to desire, a foolish man was willing to spend anything to get what he wanted. If she happened to benefit from their silliness, all the more better.

But unlike previous visits, Irene checked in quietly and discreetly, saying that her husband was planning to meet her later. Thankfully, she remembered from her past visits that the staff was discreet in their handling of guests.

The room was small, but elegantly furnished and quite comfortable. Even though it was morning, Irene could feel exhaustion gnawing at her bones. And the urge for a bath was quite strong. So she prepared a bath, poured herself a glass of scotch and slid into the tub with a happy sigh.

She washed off the dust and dirt of travel and washed her hair, savoring the lavender scent of the soap. After she finished washing herself off, Irene sipped her scotch and leaned back, and closed her eyes, reveling in the soothing warmth of the water.

Even though it appeared she was sleeping, Irene was awake and aware of her surroundings. She kept expecting to hear a key in the door and Mycroft’s heavy footsteps and his low voice calling her name. She kept waiting to hear the door open and see him standing in the doorway.

She idly wondered if Mycroft was the type of man who would sneak a peek of a naked woman bathing. No, she thought, Mycroft would be the type to walk into the room and announce his presence, but not by saying a word. Irene knew she’d be able to sense him and that intrigued her.

Irene imagined what Mycroft would do if confronted with her naked body. She bit her lip to suppress a giggle at the thought of seducing him. Would he even fall for it, like other men? Irene knew he would still be on his guard, even if he removed his clothing. Oh, they’d have fun, she didn’t doubt that for a moment -- there was something about the way he attacked life with gusto that indicated to her Mycroft would be an excellent lover. But she knew that Mycroft would always be aware of his vulnerable points, just like she was aware of her weaknesses.

It might be worthwhile to seduce him, not necessarily to have him blinded to her motivations, but just to see if her theories proved correct, Irene thought with a slight smile, before leaving the tub and drying herself. Besides, a little physical fun never hurt a soul.

As for now, Irene needed to go out and gather information, as well as get some more clothing. Mycroft and any wanton thoughts she had of him would simply have to wait.

~*~

It had been years since Mycroft had traveled on a train with other passengers. Short jaunts weren’t so bad, but long trips like this reminded him why he couldn’t tolerate most people. Even though he was grateful for the ticket, so he could reach Vienna as soon as possible, being trapped on this passenger car on an uncomfortable bench was getting to be a tad intolerable.

Not to mention, there a terrifyingly ugly woman who wouldn’t stop staring at him. She had dark brown curls covered in a black scarf and huge moles on her face. Her white blouse was large and shapeless as well as her skirts. For once, Mycroft was grateful he couldn’t see a woman’s figure. She had bracelets up and down her arm and was puffing on a pipe while staring at him intently.

What was worse was the feeling that he knew that face. Was this a past liaison rearing its ugly head? Mycroft wondered, then questioned how drunk he would have been to embrace this woman. He ran through all scenarios in his head, but came up with nothing.

He tried ignoring her, staring out the window into the night or feigning sleep. Then he felt the person sitting next to him get up and leave. Before he could stretch out, the woman slid next to him.

“Do I know you?” the voice was harsh and scratchy, but under everything, Mycroft instantly recognized it.

He stared into the eyes of the woman and choked back a guffaw. “Sherlock?” he whispered.

The woman nodded and Mycroft snorted. “Ye gods,” he muttered, trying not to laugh hysterically. “You look like Aunt Josephine.”

Sherlock huffed. “Well, you look like Uncle Philippe,” he whispered. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Complications,” he said softly, looking around. Even though the train was crowded, it appeared that most people were asleep or locked in their own conversations. “Hopefully our friend made it to her destination.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think --” his voice trailed off.

Mycroft shrugged. Holmes nodded. That was the beauty of family, they both realized. You could communicate effectively with little or no words.

“How did you know to go to Vienna?” It was Mycroft’s turn to ask.

“Harry,” Sherlock replied. “It’s pure serendipity that we’re on the same train together.” He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully. “So what are you thinking?”

“We have to find the man,” Mycroft said softly. “Simple as that. Achieve the goal.”

“What about --”

Mycroft smiled slightly. “Do not worry,” he softly said. “If she’s fled, we’ll find her. If she’s there, I’ll take care of her. If something else has happened, we still accomplish the goal first.”

Sherlock nodded. “Are you worried about her?”

Mycroft snorted. “No.”

“Liar,” Sherlock chuckled.

Mycroft sighed. This was the problem of having an exceedingly observant family, he thought. They could tell when someone had affected him in some way -- and they always enjoyed teasing him about it.

“You’ve also been bewitched by her,” Mycroft retorted. “Aren’t you upset by this complication?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to shrug. “She’s a free woman,” he said softly. “Untamable, unreliable and untrustworthy. But also intoxicating.”

Mycroft smiled slightly at his brother’s words. “So where is the good Dr. Watson?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I thought it would be more discreet to keep my biographer out of this mission,” he replied softly. “When my frère ainé leaves England for a mission, it’s clear to me that it’s of grave importance.”

Mycroft knew there was an underlying reason to Sherlock’s decision not to include Watson (odds were that it had something to do with the good doctor‘s upcoming nuptials), but decided not to pursue it further. He could tell his brother simply wanted to focus on the case at hand, which was perfectly fine with Mycroft.

“So what is my role in this mission?” Sherlock asked.

“Find him, get the device, go back home,” Mycroft replied. “There is no one else you need to worry about. It is just the three of us.”

“Are you going to tell her about me?”

Mycroft shook his head. “She doesn’t need the distraction,” he replied. “Neither do you. You already know too much. You will report to me and I will give you whatever information I discover.”

Another nod. “Very good,” he said. “Can I expect you disguised?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Mayhaps. Perhaps next time I’ll look like grandfather.”

Sherlock snorted. “You’re a bit too heavyset for that.”

“How about Nana?”

“That’s just sadistic,” Sherlock chuckled, as Mycroft joined him in quiet laughter.

Even though Sherlock Holmes may have thought that she was a professional in finding information and using it to her advantage, Irene felt at a loss regarding Dettwiler. She had no friends in Vienna and she realized that while the letter might have been marked St. Poelten, that didn’t mean that he was housed in there.

However, seeing when the letter was dated -- a day after the postmark, which was rather unusual for posting letters, Irene thought. Vienna seemed to be the most logical location, but given the cosmopolitan nature of the city, as well as its size, where?

Irene’s problem was that her contacts in Vienna were few. What she knew of Moriarty was little, if anything. She knew he was a professor. She knew he was armed and dangerous. This was going to be more complicated than she originally thought.

As she dressed, she realized something -- given that they knew that Mycroft and she were in Zurich, he would probably believe that she was heading to Vienna. Moriarty wanted to deal with her. If she let herself be found, he would lead her to where she needed to be.

And so, Irene decided not to be discreet in her dealings. She went around asking people for information regarding laboratories and electrical research. She asked around the train station about a private train with a thin man with dark hair and a van Dyke beard. In short, she made sure she was memorable.

As she was having tea in a café, Irene tried to hide her lack of surprise as three men took chairs surrounding her. She was prepared for them -- she had a pistol in her pocket, pointed at the man sitting across from her.

“Miss Adler,” the man across from her nodded. He was older, perhaps in his late forties, graying at the temples and clean shaven. Even though the paunch of middle-age had already set in, Irene could tell he was still a dangerous and not someone to be trifled with.

She raised an eyebrow. “Who’s looking for me?” she asked calmly.

The man smiled. It was practically reptilian in nature. “Colonel Sebastian Moran,” he said. “These are my colleagues.” he nodded at the two men flanking Irene. They both were large, dressed in suits and obviously dangerous. Irene also suspected they had the brains of trained dogs. It would be Moran who would give the command to attack, she realized.

“Pleased to meet you,” she smiled brightly.

“I won’t waste your time Miss Adler,” Moran continued. “Just listen to me. A dear friend of mine, who we both are acquainted with, has a message for you: If you want to survive, you will fulfill this task and he will release you from your obligations.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Go on,” she said.

“My friend knows that you’ve been working with a certain Mycroft Holmes,” Moran continued softly. “It’s obvious what you both are looking for, despite your vague attempts to be stealthy. His offer to you is this: Bring us Mycroft Holmes and you are free of your obligations.”

“What makes you think he’s with me?” she fired back.

“He eluded my men in Zurich,” Moran replied.

Irene kept her expression neutral, even though inwardly relief flooded her system. He’s still alive, she thought to herself. “He might have given up,” she retorted.

“But you’re still here,” Moran said.

“The train brought me here,” Irene said a tad defensively. “What makes you think I’m looking for what you have? I could be visiting for a bit before leaving town.” She leaned back with a slight smile. “Then you’d have nothing to worry about.”

Irene was pleased to see Moran flabbergasted for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “Really, you’re still under obligation to our friend,” Moran said, leaning forward. “After all, you did tell Sherlock Holmes about our friend’s identity.”

She leaned back, in an attempt to get some more personal space between them. “I did no such thing,” she replied coldly.

Moran snorted. “Then explain to me how a certain Sherlock Holmes has become interested in our friend’s activities?”

Irene shrugged. “I do not know,” she said imperially. “I have not had any communication with him since the incident at Parliament.”

Moran leaned forward on the table. “Do not toy with me Miss Adler,” he growled.

“It’s true,” she said, knowing every word she spoke was honest. She hadn’t seen Sherlock Holmes since the bridge and right now, didn’t care to see him again.

She could feel Moran’s stare fix onto her and he studied her features. Irene locked eyes with him and didn‘t flinch.

“In any case Miss Adler, do you want to always be looking over your shoulder?” Moran said. “Do you want to be unsure of your safety? Because if you do not cooperate with us, we can make your life very, very complicated. England will never be a safe haven for you -- you’ll either be pursued by the government or by us. At least with us, you’d have a safe haven on the side of the law we know you’re most comfortable with.”

Irene gave a sigh of defeat. Moran was right. Given the Holmes‘ connections and Moriarty‘s, Irene would never feel truly safe in England. Which was a pity because it was one of her havens. She could move on, but somehow, she thought it wouldn‘t be as much fun. “What do you require?” she said finally.

“As I said before, Mycroft Holmes,” Moran replied.

Irene shook her head and chuckled slightly. “You forget, he is an intelligent man,” she replied. “I can’t just lead him into an alley and expect him to follow. He is not that foolish. Also, I saw him battle your men in Zurich quite ably.”

Moran chuckled. “You are correct my dear,” he said. “But you’ve been able to outwit his younger brother twice -- what makes you think that the older Holmes wouldn’t also be vulnerable to your charms?”

Irene snorted. “I’ve tried,” she replied. “He’s a bit more complicated than his younger brother.”

Moran snorted. “In other words, he’s already sees you for what you are -- a common thief.”

Irene ignored that insult. “I can’t ensnare him unless there’s something of interest for him,” she retorted. “And he’s single-minded in his mission -- he wants Dettwiler and that device. Mycroft is not as easily distractible as his brother.”

Moran nodded. “What if we gave you an address to Dettwiler?” he asked.

Irene sucked in a breath. “Really?” she asked.

Moran nodded and handed her a card. On it was an address printed in neat writing. “You can investigate it yourself. It is his lab. He’ll be there,” he said. “So will we. Bring Mycroft Holmes to us and your debts and obligations to our mutual friend will be erased.” He stood up. The other two men stood up.

“You’re taking a pretty big gamble,” Irene commented. “What makes you think that I won’t give him this information and we’ll just get the device ourselves?”

Moran shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility,” he admitted. “If that’s true, then you know the consequences. If it’s false, you both still will have arrived on our doorstep. You still don’t know what contingencies we have planned, so above all else, it’s still a big risk. We can dance around each other, or we can nip this in the bud.”

He leaned forward and looked her square in the eye. Irene swallowed slightly and tried not to shrink back. She would be intimidated by no one. “Miss Adler, we will win either way,” he said softly. “The question is, how much do you want to lose?”

With that, Moran turned around with his two minions and walked out of the café quietly. Irene waited until they were out of sight before heaving a shuddering breath and ordering a stiff drink to steady her nerves.

~*~

After the train arrived in Vienna that afternoon, the Holmes brothers separated, but not before promising to meet the next day at a nearby pub to exchange information. Mycroft wandered into the Imperial and checked in as Mr. Munson.

The staff informed him that Irene had arrived earlier that morning, but had left around lunchtime, which didn’t surprise Mycroft at all. Either she was out gathering information, or she was on a train headed somewhere else.

Besides, by this point, it didn’t matter much to him. Mycroft simply wanted to head to his room, get some rest, then have a hot bath and a glass of scotch.

Entering the room, he closed his eyes and inhaled, savoring the scent of her perfume. Even though it had been hours since she left, her perfume was still potent, Mycroft mused, as he fell into the bed and dozed off.

It was the most restful sleep he had since leaving Harry’s more than twenty-four hours ago. Perhaps moreso, since he didn’t have to worry about being a gentleman as half his body slid off the bed to keep distance between Irene and him.

Even though he was used to not sleeping much, he still like his rest. Mycroft found he didn’t need as much sleep as other people, but when his body demanded rest, he had to obey to keep his mind sharp. The train was not the most restful location for a nap, and running into his little brother, while enlightening, was not exactly relaxing for the mind and body.

Waking up a few hours later, Mycroft rose, stripped off his clothing and started filling the tub with hot water. Pouring himself a drink, he headed back into the bathroom and slid into the tub, closing his eyes with a happy sigh.

After a few minutes, he began to review the information in his head. Dettwiler was somewhere in the area, exact location unknown. Moriarty knew that he and Irene were on the hunt for Dettwiler, but (hopefully -- there was that word again) Sherlock was still an unknown factor.

It was a difficult situation, Mycroft would admit. It was still unknown whether Moriarty would have moved Dettwiler from wherever he was and sent him somewhere else. Of course, with the impression that Irene and he were separated, hopefully Moriarty would think that the mission was seriously weakened -- if not abandoned all together.

Of course, there was the possibility that Irene was on the next ship headed for Who-Knows-Where in the country of God-Only-Knows, but at least he’d have Sherlock as back-up in case that occurred.

It was frustrating really, he thought with a frown. There were too many variables to keep track of. Well, if he was a lesser man, there would be too many variables. Mycroft wasn’t a lesser man.

Flow with whatever may happen and let your mind be free Mycroft thought, steadying his breathing and closing his eyes in meditation. Stay centered by accepting whatever you are doing.

After a few minutes of meditation, Mycroft felt calmer -- or calm enough to begin scrubbing himself. He savored the feeling of the dirt, hair dye and make-up being washed away. He debated about shaving off the scruff that was threatening to turn into a full-blown beard, but decided it was an effective disguise for now.

Once he was clean, he leaned back in the tub, drowsiness taking over yet again. Mycroft closed his eyes and enjoyed a rare moment’s peace.

~*~

Even though meeting Moran had rattled Irene somewhat, she wasn’t stupid enough to take his word at face value. Heading to the address Moran gave her, she found a small warehouse located along the Danube River.

She settled into the shadows to watch and wait for her quarry. The sun was beginning to set and the evening star was appearing. The building appeared to be quiet. Feeling a bit braver, Irene snuck up closer to the warehouse.

The windows were dirty and grungy, but that didn’t matter, because she couldn’t see any movement at all.

Sighing in frustration, Irene wandered stealthy around the building to see if there was a better way to get a view inside. Her nose detected an acrid scent -- similar to the smell of ozone after a lightening strike. The entire building was sealed up. The only entrance and exit was the front doors, which would complicate things in the future, she realized.

So she headed back to the front of the building and waited and waited. The sun set, the evening star drew up higher in the night sky and a small sliver of moonlight brought a bright glow to the room.

She had begun dozing when she suddenly heard a door slide open. Ducking into the shadows, she watched as a man matching Dettwiler’s picture emerged for a moment, breathing in the night air. The two men Irene remembered from the café were standing in the doorway. Watching the men, Irene could tell they were armed with pistols under their coats.

Dettwiler lit a cigarette and Irene watched the embers glow as he inhaled. Exhaling the smoke into the night sky, he walked over to the men and talked to them in low tones. There was an occasional chuckle, but it was overall too quiet for Irene to make out anything.

She continued to watch them, until the three of them returned inside and shut the door. After waiting a few minutes, Irene began her trek back to the hotel, ever mindful of the potential for someone to be following her.

Moran’s words echoed in her mind as she slowly made her way back to the hotel.

_“Miss Adler, we will win either way. The question is, how much do you want to lose?”_

~*~

After wandering through Vienna, Irene made it back to the hotel. Moran’s words still rang in her ears and her mind was no clearer than before. The only certain thing was the paranoid feeling that gnawed on her nerves as she made it up to the hotel room.

Putting her ear to the door, she listened carefully. While she heard nothing, her instincts told her that something wasn’t quite right in the room. Pulling her pistol out of her skirt pocket, Irene unlocked the door and opened it as softly as possible.

The room was still neatly made up, save for a pile of clothing in the middle of the room. Irene closed the door and locked it, then silently padded forward, pistol still drawn and cocked. Then she saw the sliver of light from the bathroom.

Sneaking up to the door, she peeked through the crack and saw Mycroft soaking in the tub. His dark hair was slicked back from the water and it appeared that he was dozing. Beside the tub was the small table, and on it a glass of scotch.

Irene smiled to herself, as the sense of paranoia that was plaguing her earlier faded. She put the gun in her skirt pocket, then opened door and slid into the room silently. Emboldened by his state, she moved closer to him until she was standing beside the tub.

His face was relaxed and calm. There was a bruise under one eye and it was obvious that his lip had been split -- but both wounds looked old, so she suspected it was from the battle at the train station and nothing more nefarious. The scruff around his face was messy, but actually disguised some of his sharp features quite well, she thought.

Even though it was scandalous, her gaze slid down his body to drink in the rest of the sight. He was massive -- long and large arms, heavy torso, thick thighs and long muscular legs. Irene was surprised that he wasn’t as portly as she initially thought -- indeed, she could see some muscle definition underneath everything. There were a few bruises along his torso and arms -- indications of the fight he had been in before.

Before she could examine him more, Mycroft’s eyes flashed open and he looked up at Irene with a bemused smile.

“You came back,” he said softly.

Irene wasn’t surprised that he didn’t shout or question why she was in the bathroom, examining his naked body. This was Mycroft Holmes -- omniscience was his specialty. She could have brought in a whole nunnery to the bathroom and somehow, he wouldn’t be surprised or scandalized.

“You didn‘t think I would?” she asked, then reached for his glass and sipped his scotch. It burned in a delightful way and she smiled at him.

The air felt heavy between them. Irene wondered what Mycroft’s next move would be and she could feel a bit of desire starting to burn in her, as well as curiosity. He gazed up at her thoughtfully with heavy-lidded eyes.

“I wasn‘t sure,” he admitted after a moment.

Irene smiled. “It’s nice to know I can surprise you,” she replied, leaning forward to put the glass back on the table.

Mycroft’s hand shot out to grab her wrist. It was a firm grasp, but something that Irene could have easily freed herself from if she wanted. With his other hand, he took the glass from her and finished the dregs of the scotch before setting the glass down on the table.

“Manners, Miss Adler,” he chided softly.

Irene chuckled as he pulled her closer to him so that she was bending over him. His other hand slid down the front of her blouse, causing Irene to take a shuddering breath. Long fingers brushed between her cleavage, leaving a delightful ache, before they grabbed the gold chain she wore around her neck.

Pulling it out, his bemused look bloomed into a grin as the shilling danced between his fingers. Irene could feel herself redden, but before she could say something tart, his hand let go of her wrist, only to wind though her hair, pulling her closer to him until their lips connected.

It was a soft press of lips, more of a question than anything else. But the smell of the soap mixed something that was unmistakably masculine caused Irene to moan softly. Taking that as a sign of permission, Mycroft’s other hand slid around her waist and she found herself partially submerged as he pulled her into the bathtub.

Their kiss deepened, a lazy, relaxed exploration of each other that caused Irene to shiver, despite the bathwater being warm. For awhile, they just lay there, kissing as the water splashed out of the bathtub and onto the floor as Mycroft wrapped his arms tightly around her waist.

After what seemed to Mycroft to be a too-short moment, Irene pulled back. “I do have news,” she said with a slight smile on her face. She tried to keep a business tone, despite the fact that they had just kissed and there was an erection pressing against her body.

“Really?” Mycroft studied her features. Her blouse, now translucent, clung her body in the most enticing of ways and he liked how red and swollen her lips were from their kiss.

“I found Dettwiler,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow. “How about you tell me later?” Mycroft leaned in to suck on her neck a bit, relishing the way she began to stammer and moan. “Right now, what I’d like for you to do is get out of the bathtub, get out of these wet clothes and meet me in the other room,” he whispered into her throat and releasing her from his grasp.

Irene pulled back with a moan of disappointment. “But the tub is so nice and warm,” she grumbled.

Mycroft stroked her hair and his hand slid down to unbutton her blouse. Punctuating each word with a trailing kiss down her neck and cleavage, he replied, “I will make it worth your while.”

“Prove it,” she murmured.

“That’s a bit hard to do with all this fabric between me and you,” he said, pulling the blouse off of her. “You’ll just have to take my word for it my dear.”

“How about a little taste of what’s to come?”

With that, she felt his hands slid up her shoulders and push down the chemise that was under her corset. Breasts now exposed to him, Mycroft’s mouth captured a rosy nipple and his tongue flicked over it. The jolt of pleasure caused Irene to gasp loudly as she writhed while he sucked and nibbled her breast to almost painful arousal. Water sloshed everywhere as she began to shamelessly grind her hips against him.

His fingers skimmed down her back and she could feel him undoing the laces in her corset. Before Irene knew it, she could feel him removing her corset. Mycroft’s mouth left her breast, leaving her whimpering.

“Now my dear,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ve got you halfway undressed -- the other half is up to you.” Mycroft settled back in the tub, putting both of his hands on the tub’s edges.

Irene chuckled, then slowly maneuvered out of the tub. Her waterlogged skirts made it a bit awkward to pull away from him gracefully, but she managed to leave the tub without falling flat on her face. She was rewarded with a soft groan from him as her hand stroked his erection under the water. Not to mention, it was a boost to her ego to see that he was as affected by her touch as she was by his.

Standing up, she pulled off her chemise, which she then wrung out and hung over the door. Irene could feel Mycroft’s gaze on her and she glanced back to see him with an cool appraisal in his eyes. There was a glow of appreciation in his expression, which made her smile.

Reaching back she unbuttoned her skirt and pulled it, and the underskirts, down in one smooth motion, letting him see her clad in nothing but her panties, garters and stockings.

Mycroft let out a “Hmmm,” of appreciation. “If you would,” he said softly, “Leave the stockings on.”

Irene chuckled and obeyed his request. “Since the gentleman asked so nicely,” she said.

She turned around to exit the room, when she heard him stand up and the water spill over the tub. Before she knew it, Mycroft was behind her, spinning her around and towering over her. He emitted a throaty growl before claiming her mouth with his.

His arms slid around her waist and Irene automatically wrapped her legs around him. She felt some pain as her legs were stretched around his torso.

“Are you sure about this?” Mycroft whispered in her ear, before nipping at the lobe. “You and Sherlock --”

“Yes,” Irene moaned. “If you don’t finish this, I will handcuff you to the bed and leave you to rot.”

Mycroft laughed. “If the lady insists,” he said, setting her down again. She groan in disappointment, but before she could protest, he kneeled on the ground, spreading her legs. Briefly his tongue flicked in and out of her navel, before traveling downward. One long finger, then two, slid into Irene as her ground her hips onto his hand. Then his tongue flicked over her clit and she let out a low keening wail as her arousal continued to spiral.

Irene could feel herself getting weak-kneed as her hands wound into his hair and she tugged on his scalp.

Before she could start grinding on his fingers, Mycroft withdrew his fingers from her. Staring up at her, he licked his fingers and then stood. His hands cupped her bottom and he lifted her. With one smooth thrust he entered her. She wrapped her legs around him, sighing in relief. Two steps later, she felt the wall press against her back.

The slow simmer that Mycroft had brought her to was now threatening to boil over as he thrust into her. Irene felt stretched to the limit and she dug her nails into his back, gasping for air, moaning and babbling incoherently.

There was another low chuckle from him as he kissed her neck and ran his tongue down her collarbone. She could feel the intensity build up and her hips began to buck and her wails became louder and louder.

The stretching pain she felt made her ache in ways that she hadn’t in years. It had been awhile since Irene was spread this wide and open and it was delicious. She could feel the flicker of orgasm whisper through her body, quickly becoming a roar.

Her body began convulsing and she began to wail incoherently. Mycroft covered her mouth with his and she sucked greedily on his tongue, moans emitting from the back of her throat. Then she could feel him shudder and moan into her mouth as he came.

Still entwined, Mycroft carried her to the bed and collapsed next to her with a rumbling chuckle. “Now,” he said, stretching slightly. “What is this information you have for me?”

~*~

Irene Adler was a worldly woman. She had many lover and many husbands. And they all came in various shapes and sizes. And in her previous experience, the larger the husband or lover, the more lethargic.

They all seemed to prefer lying in bed like a sunning walrus with her on top. Perhaps it was out of fear of crushing her or something else, but after awhile, Irene found it dull. Not to mention the fact that it seemed that those men were more focused on their pleasure instead of hers.

But that was the way with most men that she encountered. They wouldn’t know how to pleasure a woman, because they were men. Their erotic encounters often lasted as long as the Hunters’ Chorus from “The Lily of Killarney.”

Thankfully Holmes men were different -- and even though she was loathe to compare the two, she couldn’t help herself. With Sherlock it was often a battle for control as the two raced to see who could make the other lose control first. Which was pleasurable, but sometimes it was also tiring trying to match wits with Sherlock. There was no letting down of one’s guard with that man.

The strange thing about Mycroft, Irene would reflect later, was that it appeared he had no defenses. She was certain he had them, but they must have been so integrated into his persona that they were invisible. Or he was just that confident that things would go the way he predicted.

In either case, when it came to her, Mycroft treated Irene with the same reverence and affection he treated that battered piano at Harry’s pub. And with the assistance of those long, dexterous fingers, she ended up singing for him the same way he turned that out of tune box into a concert instrument. But it wasn’t just her defenses that were dropped. He appeared completely vulnerable and open to her, ready to accept whatever she gave him.

That was the biggest difference between the two brothers, Irene thought. Sherlock was always suspicious of what she’d give him (perhaps rightly so), whereas Mycroft seemed not only curious, but a bit eager to see what would happen next.

Those thoughts were swirling around Irene’s head as she lay in bed, breathless and a bit boneless after their first encounter. Once they got their voices back, the pair spent time detailing what happened after the incident in Zurich. Admittedly not all details were mentioned, such as Mycroft’s encounter with Sherlock, or Irene’s meeting with Moran.

“I will confess, I wonder if Harry told others about our plans,” she said idly. They were both sitting in bed and Mycroft, magician he was, had managed to procure some bread, cheese and caviar from the suitcase.

He shrugged, then chewed on a piece of bread. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied.

“You’re not upset by this?” she asked, a bit of steel in her voice.

“Do you truly think Harry is a mere owner of a pub?” Mycroft chuckled, shaving off a bit of cheese with a penknife and gently feeding it to Irene, savoring the way she sucked on his fingers. He could feel his cock twitch slightly, despite their recent coupling.

She chuckled, instantly understanding where he was going. “I take it he deals in information?”

“You always have to give something to get something.”

“He could’ve gotten you killed,” Irene said softly. “Everything could’ve been compromised.”

Mycroft covered her mouth with a kiss, his tongue flicking into her mouth, in attempt to quench her anger. It quelled it somewhat, but ignited other things.

He pulled away and murmured into her hair, “But I’m not dead. We’re in Vienna, you have performed wonderfully and gotten information.”

“Firstly, you’re distracting me,“ Irene huffed an annoyed sigh. “Secondly, why would you trust him?”

“Firstly, yes, I am. Secondly, because I know him,” Mycroft replied, running his lips down her neck. “He gave us more than what they got out of him. We’ve made it here and you’ve gotten information about Dettwiler. That’s our next goal and we need to focus on that.”

Even though she tried to act annoyed with him, Irene’s body responded to his touch and her mouth opened slightly and she emitted a breathy sigh. It was hard to remain angry at someone when both parties are naked and in the throes of post-coital bliss, she thought.

He began pushing her to lay on her back. “What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously.

There was a low, throaty chuckle. “Well, I have a few questions,” Mycroft said, opening the tin of caviar. “How on earth did you get Dettwiler’s location so soon?”

Irene watched as he took a small spoonful of caviar and ate it. “I have my ways,” she said, evading his question.

Mycroft chuckled, then leaned forward and placed a few caviar eggs on a nipple. Irene gasped slightly at the cool sensation and she examined the cool, black, luminescent eggs perched on a rosy nipple.

“I once knew a Russian countess,” Mycroft said thoughtfully, as if he had never asked her the question in the first place, or that she evaded it. “She used to love caviar -- said it was worth more than just being served at pubs to get people thirsty enough to drink. But her favorite way to eat caviar was like this --”

Before Irene could say anything, Mycroft leaned down and took her breast in his mouth, licking the caviar off and massaging her breast in his hand. She arched her back slightly and let out a long, low moan as a pool of arousal began to build in the base of her spine.

“Now,” he said, as he pulled his head back to look at her and returning to the matter at hand. “I doubt very much that you got this tidbit by simply nosing around.”

“What do you think happened?” Irene asked, gasping softly. She watched with wide eyes as he applied a bit more caviar to her other breast.

“Well, I suspect you’ve met with Moriarty’s men,” he said thoughtfully. His dark eyes gleamed with knowledge. “The way your eyes just twitched told me that’s true enough. I also suspect they offered you something in exchange for switching sides -- that’s how these things usually go.”

Then his mouth dipped down and she could feel the warm, wet sensation of his tongue licking off the caviar. His teeth gently nipped at her, causing Irene to let out a small shriek as her hands wound into his hair, holding him close to her breast.

After a long moment, he pulled his mouth away from her again. Irene could feel his hands go between her thighs again, gently massaging her mound. Coherent speak was beginning to shut down as she felt arousal building in her again as his fingers teased around her clitoris.

“Did they off you freedom?” Mycroft asked, sliding one finger into her and relishing the way she gasped as he crooked his finger slightly. “Money?”

She shook her head. “They said my debts would be paid off if I delivered you to them,” Irene replied. She knew better than to try and lie to him -- Mycroft would instantly know the truth.

Not to mention, right now she wouldn’t have been able to fashion a lie if she tried. The way his finger was moving in her was causing the reptilian portion of her brain to take over, erasing her ability to scheme.

“Is this Dettwiler’s address?” Mycroft asked, examining the card Moran gave her with his free hand as he slid another finger into her.

“Yes,” she moaned softly. Irene could feel herself getting wetter again and her hips moved in concert with his ministrations. “I verified it,” she gasped softly. “Saw him with my own eyes.”

Mycroft chuckled and set the card on the nightstand. “Excellent work,” he said, before pulling his fingers away from her. Positioning himself between her legs, he said, “I just have one more question -- what do you plan to do?”

Irene bit her lip as she tried to focus on his question -- even though she wanted to say something, all coherent thought was obliterated with his handiwork. The only thing she could feel was a burning need to have herself wrapped around him like a ribbon on a present.  
Mycroft studied her quietly as he rubbed his cock against her, watching her hips twitch and her breath hitch. Then a devilish smile spread slowly across his face.

“On second thought,” he said, thrusting into her and watching her back arch as she gasped, “don’t tell me. It’ll make the game more interesting.”

Irene began to laugh, a joyful, bubbling laugh as she her legs locked around his waist again. Mycroft’s hands slid around her waist as he pulled her to straddle him in a sitting position. With that, their mouths locked into a kiss as the laugh melted into a moan.

Of course he would want to keep it interesting, she thought to herself as he moved in her with long, luxurious strokes, boredom is his enemy. Her hands tangled in his hair and even quicker than before, another orgasm washed over her as she leaned her head back and laughed.

She could hear Mycroft also chortle as her moaned his name in the aftershocks. But soon his movements became more frantic and guttural noises emitted from his throat as his fingers dug into her bottom, leaving marks that she‘d remember for days to come. Irene moved one leg slightly to take him in deeper and she could feel him lose control as he moved without thought and reason.

There was a loud groan as he came and Irene kissed him hungrily, swallowing the sound with her mouth. For a few moments, they sat there, laughing quietly and kissing softly as they floated back down to reality. Then they slowly detangled themselves and stretched languidly on the bed.

It was apparent to Mycroft that Irene’s thoughts had drifted elsewhere. He lay next to her, his arm across her body, one hand casually cupping a breast, and waited for her mind to return to her body. Soon he drifted off to sleep, still holding her body, her scent now embedded in his nostrils

When he awoke hours later, the smell of sex and her perfume still lingered, but Irene had vanished.

~*~

  
_Largo al factotum della citta_   
_Presto a bottega che l’alba e gia_   
_Ah che bel vivere, che bel_   
_Piacere_   
_Per unbarbiere di qualita! Di qualita!_

_Ah, brave Figaro!_   
_Brave, bravissimo!_   
_Fortunatissimo per verita!_

Mycroft groaned. Of course Sherlock would sing Largo al Factotum. It was well known to be one of the more complex arias out there with its tongue-twisting lyrics and mastering it was proof of a baritone’s talents. The way he was belting out the “la-la-la’s” was like a hammer being applied to Mycroft’s skull.

He remembered what their mother once said when they were young. Mycroft, mon amour, you can play the piano better than John Field, but you will never be a great singer. Which didn’t bother him much. He knew he wasn’t a great singer, but his line of work didn’t require him having opera training.

_Pronto a far tutto_   
_La notte e il giorno_   
_Sempre d’intorno in giro sta._   
_Miglior cuccagna per un barbiere,_   
_Vita piu nobile, no, non si da._

The next batch of “la, la, la’s”, mixed with the potent scent of Irene’s perfume and the previous activities pounded reality into Mycroft’s brain:

_Why was he hearing Sherlock sing Largo al Factotum in his hotel room?_

He sat bolt upright, ignoring the fact that he was naked and only a thin sheet covered the lower portion of his body. Mycroft glanced to the other side of the bed. Irene wasn’t there. But his eyes quickly noticed Sherlock, sitting cross-legged in a corner chair, smirking.

Mycroft didn’t even bother to ask how his brother got into the room. He knew exactly how. It had been one of the reasons why he was so relieved to leave home for school. His classmates may have been as intellectually interesting as oatmeal, but at least they weren‘t smart enough to pick his locks and snoop through his things.

“I think she likes you,” Sherlock said.

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re not handcuffed to the bed,” his brother said with a slight laugh. “Or did she drug you with the wine? Perhaps her lipstick?”

Mycroft snorted. “If that was true, I would have fallen unconscious after our first encounter.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows jumped up and down in a quick conveyance of surprise. “I wasn’t sure,” he admitted. “I saw the spilled water in the bathroom and her waterlogged clothing, but I didn‘t realize you and she --” his voice trailed off as a delighted smile spread across his face.

Then he began laughing a big, barking laugh. “You are unconscionable,” Sherlock chuckled. “A woman I’ve bedded before? You’re a brother starling.” He leaned forward, fingertips pressed together, his eyes aglow with amusement. “How were the melting moments?”

“My dear brother, crude slang does not suit you one bit,” Mycroft said, rubbing his head. “Also a gentleman never speaks about his liaisons.”

Sherlock smiled slightly. She has affected you, the smile said.

Mycroft ignored the meaning behind his brother’s smile “In any case, do you have information for me?” he asked, changing the subject. “Or did you just come here in hopes of seeing your muse?”

“Where is she?” Sherlock asked, evading Mycroft.

Mycroft shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied. “She was here when I fell asleep.”

“Did you manage to get information from her?”

Mycroft nodded. “She met Moriarty’s men. Saw Dettwiler and has an address,” he said.

“Do you think she was telling you the truth?”

Mycroft smiled crookedly as the memory of the previous night bubbled to the surface. “It was a fruitful interrogation,” he replied.

Sherlock shuddered, instantly understanding what he meant. “I don’t even want to know,” he muttered. He stood up and threw pants at Mycroft. “So what is your plan?”

Mycroft grabbed the pants. Swinging his legs around, he began getting dressed. “We have an address,” he said. “Let’s go there.” He pulled on a shirt and buttoned it. “Your objective remains the same. Get the device. I will worry about Miss Adler.”

Sherlock watched as Mycroft quickly tied his tie, donned his coat and armed himself with a pistol and two knives. “Suppose she’s gone? Suppose she just seduced you and fled? Or what if she threw her lot in with Moriarty?”

Mycroft usually prided himself on being able to hide is expressions, but a pang of remorse twisted in his stomach. Buttoning his coat, he stood, forcing his expression to be neutral. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, turning to his brother. “The objective remains the same and we will succeed.”

Sherlock blinked. “Indeed,” he said. Before Mycroft could exit the door, Sherlock gently grasped his brother’s arm. Mycroft stared at him.

“We’ll find her,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Mycroft shook off his brother’s arm. “I’m not worried,” he said. “We have a mission.”

Sherlock didn’t say it, but his expression clearly conveyed that he knew the truth with Mycroft’s heart.

~*~

Despite his attempts to keep a calm interior and exterior, Mcyroft’s mind -- for the first time in a long while -- was frantically examining all the options available. His mind saw two possible paths:

_1\. Irene had gone to get the device herself in a foolish attempt to protect him._

2\. Irene had thrown her lot in with Moriarty’s men and their physical encounter was a way to enthrall him and make her come to him.

Mycroft long ago eliminated the possibility that she had fled the country because it made no sense. Why would she go to the trouble of finding information, sleep with him and then flee the scene? It simply wasn’t Irene, given what he knew of her.

Stop thinking about that, he commanded himself. Focus on the task at hand. Do not think about the possibilities, only what exists.

Before he could dwell on the situation more, they neared the warehouse. The duo walked past the warehouse, then cut through an alley and examined it from a distance.

“Awfully big for one man doing work on a radio device,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft nodded. “This does seem unusual,” he replied. “Do you think he’s elsewhere?”

Sherlock nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in St. Polten as you said before,” he said.

“That is a possibility,” he said. “If she saw him at night, might not have been him.” Mycroft closed his eyes and thought. “I have a plan.”

“What?”

“They’re expecting me,” Mycroft said. “I’ll go in there. That should buy you time to enter from the window --” he pointed to a window on the second floor. “And investigate. Don’t wait for me. Just go and if you get the device, go to Harry‘s. If I‘m not back in two days, got to London and report.”

“You’re mad,” Sherlock muttered.

“My mission, my rules,” Mycroft replied. “Are you armed and ready?”

Sherlock nodded. “If you’re not back by the morning --”

“Don’t even think that,” Mycroft tartly replied. “Sentimentality does not suit you. I’ll see you at Harry’s.”

With that, Sherlock nodded. Mycroft advanced to the door of the warehouse, fingering his pistol in his pocket.

He put his ear to the door, but heard nothing. Testing the door tentatively, he found it unlocked. He glanced at his brother for a moment, nodded curtly, then quickly opened the door and entered the warehouse.

The warehouse was dimly lit, with the only illumination coming from the windows. It was surprisingly open, with few crates and boxes. Evidently this building had been converted into a workshop, judging by the neatness of it.

Mycroft sniffed the air. There was the scent of chemicals and ozone, as well as the underlying notes of Irene’s perfume. Rather peculiar, he though to himself. They couldn’t have been so foolish as to have kept Dettwiler here, could they?

He could feel his mind humming as he stealthy wandered through the warehouse. There were no guards, which worried him. If this device was so valuable to Moriarty, he would have kept this place heavily guarded. Mycroft wondered if they had moved Dettwiler and if so, what happened to Irene?

Before he could ponder that question further, he spotted Irene, tied to a chair in the middle of the warehouse. She appeared unconscious and battered. Mycroft scanned the area. She was obviously being used as bait.

It was something hammered into him early in his education : Never compromise the mission. No matter how badly injured your compatriots are, do not lose focus. The mission is the objective. Obtain the objective, then worry about everything else.

But seeing her neck bruised, her hair falling in chestnut curls down her back and her hands bound behind her back, and also hearing her unsteady breathing and hearing a soft whimper emit from her caused Mycroft to move forward to her, despite all of his education.

Pulling out his knife, Mycroft snuck closer to Irene. Even though he saw no guards, he knew they were there. It was foolish, but he also thought about Sherlock, who was hopefully somewhere in this warehouse, looking for the device. Keeping everyone’s attention focused on him, would probably be the best thing.

He took a deep breath and then snuck forward to Irene. Cutting her bindings, Mycroft whispered in her ear, “Irene, it’s Mycroft.”

Irene let out a soft whimper of pain, lolling her head around in response to his voice.

He didn’t say anything in response, choosing to cut the bindings on her legs and free her so she could escape.

Suddenly Mycroft felt the cool sharpness of a blade against his throat. He let out a small chuckle as he looked up into Irene’s brown eyes -- deep dark pools that he got lost in the previous night. This time there was no affection in them. It was a cold business-like stare.

“I’ve got him,” she called out, standing up, forcing Mycroft to stand with her. “Colonel Moran, I present to you Mycroft Holmes.”

~*~

This wasn’t the first time that Mycroft had been taken prisoner by an enemy. Nor was it the first time that a woman had been on the other side of the weapon. But, as he heard guards surround he and Irene, it was probably the first time that he felt uncertainty. And in a perverse way, it delighted him.

He grinned crookedly at Irene. “You two-faced bitch,” Mycroft said softly.

Irene’s smile was cold. “Mycroft,” she chided. “Last night was pleasure. This is business.”

“Glad to know we had some pleasure.” Her hand was steady and he could feel the blade -- nice and sharp -- bump against his neck. Mycroft held his hands up and dropped the knife he was holding.

“Excellent Miss Adler,” a voice rang out of the darkness. “Is he armed?”

“Probably,” Irene called. She reached over and began searching his pockets. Mycroft could feel the gun slip out of his pocket as well as his other knife. Irene pocketed them.

She began patting him down to check for other things, then stood up. “He’s clean now. Only two knives and a pistol.”

“Good job,” Moran came out of the darkness. The two men eyed each other. Mycroft was vaguely familiar with Colonel Sebastian Moran -- retired colonel, educated at Eton and Oxford, crack shot, formerly with the First Bangalore Pioneers and served the Jowaki Expedition and the Second Anglo-Afghan War. It’s funny how fast the mind works sometimes, he reflected off-handedly.

“Mr. Mycroft Holmes,” Moran bowed slightly. “Pleased to meet you. Miss Adler, you may put your knife down. Mr. Holmes is surrounded by guards and if he tries anything, he will be shot down where he stands.”

Irene lowered her knife and went to stand next to Moran.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran,” Mycroft said, relishing his name slightly. “I never thought I’d see a decorated Colonel come to this.”

Moran shrugged. “The pension wasn’t enough,” he said with a slight smile. “The Professor pays better than the British Government.”

Mycroft chuckled mirthlessly.

“So what brought you to Vienna?” Moran asked, snapping his fingers. Two chairs were brought out and Moran sat in one, motioning for Mycroft to sit, which he did.

He shrugged. “There’s a fantastic concert tonight featuring the works of Franz Schubert,” he said. “I couldn’t resist.”

Moran smiled his crocodile smile. “Come now,” he said. “Mr. Mycroft Holmes is famous for his reluctance to leave England. What’s the real reason?”

Mycroft smiled back. “Really,” he said. “Madame Norman-Neruda is performing tonight. She is an amazing performer, her bow work is second to none, and I also thought a bit of travel might be good for me.” He briefly glanced at Irene. “Miss Adler was supposed to accompany me, but it’s apparent she’s found another escort.”

Irene snorted.

“If that’s true Mr. Holmes, why are you here?” Moran asked, irritation coloring the edges of his speech.

Mycroft’s smile never wavered. “Well, I was a little perturbed that Miss Adler fled during the night,” he said. “But I found this address amongst her things and decided to investigate. Obviously she favors military men with a wicked bent and a receding hairline.”

This time, Moran’s smile faded and before he could react, a fist connected with his jaw. Mycroft groaned in pain.

“You are a terrible, terrible liar,” Moran replied.

Mycroft’s smile returned. “Come now Colonel,” he said, eyes twinkling a bit. “Why do you think I’m here?”

“It’s not here,” Moran replied. “It’s been moved.”

“Might I know where?” Mycroft’s smile brightened a bit more. That’s it you bastard, he thought to himself. Keep your focus on me.

Moran laugh was cold. “That would spoil the game,” he replied. “In any case, I have an offer from my superior for you.”

Mycroft tilted his head slightly.

“Just give us information about what you’re working on and we can make life quite comfortable for you.”

“If I don’t?”

Moran’s smile got more reptilian -- if possible. That conveyed everything Mycroft needed to know. Above Moran, Mycroft saw a flash of light blink on the far wall. It was a signal from his youth. One if safe, two if in trouble.

“Well Mr. Holmes?” Moran asked petulantly.

Mycroft smiled. “I’m disinclined to acquiesce to your request.” He caught the flash of confusion on Moran’s face. “Means ‘no.’”

Moran sighed. “Very well then,” he said. “We shall be leaving soon. If you would, Miss Adler.”

Mycroft watched with some interest as Irene pulled out a bottle of lip stain and applied it to her lips. Then she moved to Mycroft and straddled him, her skirts fanning out behind her like a peacock’s tail.

“So I take it we’re not going to a concert tonight?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I‘m sorry, I have another engagement,” she replied, moving closer, so their lips were barely touching. “Are you sure you don‘t want to join us? The pay is wonderful.”

Mycroft smiled and shook his head. “Money’s not the only thing to life sweetheart,” he replied, savoring the nearness of her lips.

The kiss was brutal in application. She nipped on his lips, drawing blood before her tongue began to plunder his mouth. Mycroft couldn’t help but respond with a low groan as her hips ground into his lap and her hands wound into his hair, forcing him still.

Then, as suddenly as it began, she pulled away. Mycroft felt dizzy and his vision blurred. “So long Mycroft,” he heard her whisper in his ear. “It could’ve been something wonderful if you said yes.” He heard her boots tapping on the floor as she walked away from him, the sound of her boots on the floor echoing in his ears.

 _The little hussy had drugged lipstick,_ he thought to himself before his vision faded into darkness.

~*~

_Rocking motion. Sound of horses on cobblestone. Heading south along the Danube, judging by the scent of the river. Two men on the cart, one heaver than the other, as ascertained by the list of the cart. Hands are bound by darbies -- judging by the weight, a good model and difficult to pick. Not that it matters, since lock picks aren’t on hand. Feet bound together by rope. Conclusion: Things continue to be interesting._

Consciousness slowly seeped into Mycroft’s brain and he groaned softly. Opening his eyes, he looked around and saw nothing but a canvas sack surrounding him. Stretching out and moving was difficult since it was also filled with large rocks. His mouth ached from the rag shoved in his mouth to gag him. He was surprised, but also thankful, that they hadn’t killed him outright.

_Likeliest outcome -- will be thrown into the Danube River and left to drown in the sack. First priority -- remove leg bindings, then cut through sack. Cloth is of an inferior grade, but sufficient for drowning a supposedly unconscious man of questionable physique. Removing darbies will have to wait. Approximate time before oxygen runs out -- three minutes, if in peak physical health. Which is questionable. Realistically -- two minutes._

Mycroft’s hands reached down to find there were ropes tied around his legs with complex knots. The handcuffs cut into his wrists and the air in the bag was getting more stuffy with his exertions. Even though it wasn’t a warm day, sweat began to drip down into his eyes as he wrestled with the knots.

He heard the hollow rattling sound and felt the carriage get bumpier. They were heading to a dock, he realized and quietly stopped exerting to lay still and limp. Better that they think he was unconscious than open the bag and kill him outright, he thought to himself.

The two men got off of the cart and he could hear them talking.

“Er ist ziemlich gross, nicht wahr?” he heard one man say as he felt the sack slide forward.

“Die Steine helfed auch nicht wirklich, aber der Colonel will ihn so schnell wie moeglich besteitigen,” was the answer as he heard both men grunt and carry him off. They were obviously big men used to carrying heavy loads.

“Bringen wir es hinter uns,” the second man said, heaving his breath. “Ich will zurueck in den Pub -- Lisette wartet auf mich.”

He could feel them drag the bag off the cart and then carry it with heavy breaths. Mycroft breathed deeply and prepared for the inevitable splash. The bag swung, causing the rocks to knock against his legs, which he cursed silently.

Then he was airborne for a moment before landing in the water. The sack sunk instantly and Mycroft reached forward to begin working on the ropes. Oxygen was limited to what he had in his lungs and Mycroft knew he had to remain cool and calm. Panicking would result in more oxygen lost and death would be a reality instead of a mostly likely occurrence.

There were several hindrances -- the fact that it was dark in the water and difficult to see, the fact that he had bound hands in his quest to untie the ropes, and also the fact that the sack was still sealed. But Mycroft had dealt with what appeared to be impossible odds before and conquered them. This time would be no different, he thought to himself as he began working on the knots.

Things were becoming more complicated since darkness was starting to spill around the edges of his vision, threatening to bring him under. Mycroft’s body also began to convulse as the lack of oxygen began to affect his movements.

 _You will not die, he thought,_ with gritted teeth, as he clawed at the sack. _Mycroft Holmes was not meant to die in a sack in a river._

But it was getting more difficult to get his body to respond to his commands. His hands tore uselessly at the sack and he could feel the inky blackness surround him.

There was a rip in the sack and a pair of arms grabbed him around the waist and began pulling. Lips covered his and fresh air was breathed into his lungs, allowing him to fight against the darkness threatening to pull him under. With a sudden spurt of fresh adrenaline, Mycroft began kicking his legs. Both he and his rescuer soon reached the surface and he gasped for air.

Arms encircled him as he lay back and they soon swam to the shore under the dock. Mycroft lay back, coughing and sputtering. I never thought river sewage could smell so sweet, he thought.

“Are you alright?” he heard his rescuer say.

“You disobeyed my orders,” Mycroft sputtered between coughs. “I told you to go to Harry’s and wait for me.” He turned to face his brother. “However, I am glad that you did so. Even if it was a breach of protocol.”

“This is why I didn’t go into the secret service -- unlike you,“ Sherlock laughed. His suit was soaking wet and his hair was plastered to his forehead and face and he was also breathing heavily. “I had to wait a bit for those two men to leave,” he said. “I thought that giving the impression that you were killed would make Moran relax a bit and hopefully buy us some time.”

Mycroft coughed between his chuckles. “You sure it wasn’t revenge for me dunking you in the Thames when you were 12?”

“A little bit,” Sherlock replied, standing up. “Come on,” he said, holding his hand out and pulling Mycroft up. “I’ve got a safe house set up near here and we can rest there.”

Mycroft stood and leaned on his brother a bit. “Excellent,” he replied. “Do you have any dry clothing?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing that would fit you.”

“Never prevented you from stealing clothing from the good doctor.”

“It wasn’t stealing, it was a barter system.”

“Similar to when you would ‘barter’ my books?” Mycroft replied.

“Yes,” Sherlock said as the two began walking.

“I hope you returned his clothing in better condition than my books.”

His brother’s expression was one of guilt, which made Mycroft wheeze out another chuckle as the two wandered down the dock.

~*~

The safe house that Sherlock had procured was a room above a pub with a shabby bed, nightstand with a battered lantern and a fireplace. In short -- it was perfect.

With their return, Sherlock had dried off, changed clothing and headed out to gather more information, based on what Mycroft had overheard. Granted ,there were probably hundreds of taverns in Vienna and thousands of women named Lisette, but it was worth an effort, given that it was the only lead they had.

Once they reached the room, Mycroft undressed and his clothes were drying by the fire. Sherlock had procured some hot tea and left Mycroft sitting by the grate where he ruminated on the situation at hand.

He was feeling shaky and slightly disorientated as the adrenaline in his system burned away. The urge to sleep was strong, but Mycroft resisted that for the moment as his mind worked over the situation. He doubted the two thugs would know anything about where Moran took Dettwiler. Irene would’ve known, but for all intensive purposes, she was out of the picture.

Mycroft brooded quietly. So far he had no money and no clues. Never before had faced a situation like this. In the past, he had been able to overcome the obstacles easily. Irene had definitely mucked up the system, he thought. The woman was more of a wild card than even he estimated.

He stood and examined his clothing. Everything was still damp, but much improved from the previous dunking. Lifting and examining his trousers, he felt an unfamiliar weight in one of the pockets. Reaching inside, he pulled out a ring, which he recognized as the one he had given Irene when they were masquerading as the Jenkins.

Biting back a laugh, he realized that she must have passed the ring onto him as she was searching his person for weapons. Mycroft examined the ring in the firelight. The exterior was still the same -- the delicate floral pattern remained untouched. But in the firelight, Mycroft could make out the letters “BR” hastily engraved on the inside of the ring.

Hearing a key at the door, Mycroft pocketed the ring back in the wet trousers. He glanced around the room for a weapon and the best he could do was to pick up his chair and ready himself for whatever came through the door.

The door opened and Mycroft prepared for the worst.

“Next time we need a secret knock,” commented a grizzled man with an enormous beard and moustache as he entered. Pulling off the disguise, Sherlock removed the false teeth, fake facial hair and hat. In the time it took to enter the room and take a seat on the bed, the weary dockworker transformed into the brilliant, if irritating, younger brother. “Also, you are not intimidating in your underwear.”

Mycroft set down the chair and settled back down. “Well, if you had clothes that fit me,” he grumbled.

A package bounced off his chest. Mycroft opened it. Inside was a pair of pants, bracers and shirt. None of it matched and the entire thing smelled strongly of smoke and alcohol.

“Dare I ask where you got this?” Mycroft said, glancing up at his brother.

Sherlock snorted. “It’s amazing what you can filch from bordellos,” he said with a slight smile.

Mycroft chuckled as he put on the clothes. The pants were a bit long, but easily cuffed and the shirt collar didn’t button around his neck, so he left it open.

During that time, Sherlock pulled out a few pasties and a couple of bottles of beer. “I know you don’t function well with an empty stomach,” he muttered as he set out everything. “So I managed to find some things to eat.”

Mycroft grabbed a beer and opened the bottle. Taking a long pull, he wolfed down one pasty. “Find out anything?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head as he opened a beer and took a sip. “You were right,” he said. “I managed to find the two men, but they just knew to dispose you,” Sherlock said. “They were fairly talkative after I plied them with some drinks.”

“And Lisette?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock began to laugh. “Lisette? They were sadly mistaken if she had affection for either of them,” he chuckled. “She, however, did proposition me.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Did you pump her for information?” He couldn’t help himself -- the innuendo burst forth like a firework.

His brother nearly sprayed beer across the nightstand. “And you say crude slang doesn’t work with me,” he snorted. “I did not have to pump --” the word was said with great distaste, “-- her for information. She readily offered it when I bought her a couple of drinks.”

Mycroft chortled. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock retorted. “She knew about as much as those two.”

Mycroft nodded. “Good work though,“ he said. “Meat pies and beer are important.“

“You are a man with a single-minded focus,” Sherlock replied. “Have you found anything?”

Mycroft nodded and went to his drying pants. He pulled out the ring and handed it to his brother, who studied it briefly.

“Where did you get this from?”

“Irene. We were posing as a couple earlier,” Mycroft replied, the crooked grin spreading over his face. “She must have slipped it in my pocket when she was divesting me of my weapons.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh no,” he said. “This is the second time I saw that grin. I know that grin. The last time I saw that grin was with Valeriya and we both know how that ended --”

“I’d say it ended quite nicely,” Mycroft chuckled. “Admittedly she was forced back to Russia with orders never to even consider returning to England, which eliminated our opportunity for future rendezvous, but it was an enjoyable time for both of us.”

“You are so lucky that mission worked out for you,” Sherlock lectured. “Otherwise you’d be nothing more than an auditor.”

“But it was fun,” Mycroft continued. “I haven’t had fun in awhile. Omniscience is dull, my petite frere. Besides, you recommended Miss Adler to me.”

With those words, realization hit Mycroft like a speeding train into a brick wall. His eyes widened in surprise and a low growl rose out of this throat. “You --” he pointed at Sherlock. “You set me up. You knew this would occur.”

Sherlock’s eyes got a devilish twinkle and a wicked grin spread across his face.

Mycroft’s fist flew out and he punched his brother in the chest. That was one advantage with his physique -- a monstrous reach that allowed him to throttle people from a safe distance. Sherlock flew back on the bed, groaning in pain as Mycroft leaped on the bed and wrapped his hands around his neck.

“You need me,” Sherlock wheezed out. “You have no other allies, you have to let me live.”

Mycroft’s hands dropped from Sherlock’s throat and he moved off the bed and he returned to his chair. “So you and her --”

Sherlock sat up and gasped. “I think we ran our course,” he said after regaining his breath. “And I didn’t expect you to --” he made an obscene gesture with his hands. “As I said before, she’s a free woman. She is beholden to no one.

“I honestly recommended her because of her connection to Moriarty,“ Sherlock began to pack a pipe and then lit it and inhaled some smoke. “I also thought it would help get her out of a spot with Scotland Yard. Secret Service has more influence.”

Mycroft glared at his brother. “You are an unmitigated ass at times,” he spat out. Sherlock chuckled as he smoked his pipe.

The elder Holmes sat stewing in irritation for a few minutes. He sensed that Sherlock had other reasons for introducing Miss Adler into the situation, but sadly, he lacked the torture devices to pry that information out of him.

Then the crooked grin spread across his face again. _It has been fun hasn’t it?_ the chaotic portion of his brain whispered. _Even when you’re staring death in the face, you’ve felt more alive these past few days than in the past few years. Admit it -- you like an occasional adventure._

Mycroft quieted that voice, reminding himself that it was time to focus on the mission. “In any case, the ring -- did you examine it?” he snapped.

“Yes,” Sherlock huffed. “I saw the ‘BR’ carved in there. I assume it’s the next location -- a note from Irene?”

Mycroft nodded, relieved that the focus shifted from Irene to the matter at hand. “I was running through possible locations in my head and the only one that comes up is --”

“Bratislava,” both men said simultaneously.

“That matches what I heard elsewhere,” Sherlock said.

“I thought you said you didn’t find anything new,” Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock’s smirk bordered on smug. “I said I didn’t find anything from the two men or Lisette,” he said, puffing on his pipe. “What I did find out -- thanks to some talkative train porters -- was that a private train was hired and a party matching Dettwiler’s descriptions left this morning heading for Bratislava.

“Not long after your encounter with Moran and Irene, they were spotted leaving with a large group headed also for Bratislava,” Sherlock continued with a satisfied smile. “Everything has been independently verified so I think we should be heading out now, don’t you?”

Mycroft pulled the now-dry socks off the grate and put them on and laced his shoes. The coat was still wet, but it would have to do, he thought, donning it.

“We can’t take the trains,” he said as he got dressed. “Some stealth will be of the essence.”

“I have it taken care of,” Sherlock replied. “A fast carriage will have us there by this evening.”

It took little time for Sherlock to pack his things -- it was merely a suitcase full of weapons, clothing and a wallet full of money. As the two men headed out the safe house and boarded the carriage, Sherlock idly spoke.

“I wonder,” he said, “If Irene would be interested in Sherrinford if you do not put a stop to her ravaging the Holmes men?”

Mycroft barked out a harsh laugh. “She’d rob him blind,” he chortled.

“Times like this, I wish Mother was still alive,” Sherlock said. “She would have known how to advise in matters like this.”

Mycroft snorted. “Please,” he said. “Mother would have taken her under her wing and paid her to spy on us.”

A guffaw emitted from Sherlock. “She would have,” he said, before the carriage sped off.

 ~*~

“I don’t understand why you’re insisting that I come with you to Bratislava,” Irene said as she was escorted onto the train with Moran and his men. “I delivered you Mycroft Holmes. I can’t help it if he decided to decline your offer.”

Moran’s hand kept a firm grip on her arm as they boarded the train. “My dear Miss Adler,” he said, “Call it taking precautions.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Irene asked. “I’ve done as you asked, my debts should be paid in full and I should be free to go. I don’t appreciate being manhandled by your men or you.”

“You are a terrible liar,” Moran replied, with a reptilian smile as they settled into a compartment. “You did deliver Mycroft Holmes, but I don’t doubt for a second that his brother will be coming soon to look for him.” The smile didn‘t reach his eyes. “Call this a bit of insurance.”

Irene felt the corner of her mouth twitch slightly in a smile. “You’re mad if you think that Sherlock still has feelings for me,” she said. “Just let me go and no one will be the wiser.”

“My dear Miss Adler,” Moran replied, “That is not possible.”

“Why?” Irene asked as the train began to rattle and pull out of the station.

“We know you’ve got feelings for him also,” Moran said. “I know you tried to convince him to flee with you, but he did no such thing. This is a complication which we can‘t have. So until further notice, you will remain in our company.”

Irene gave a sigh of indignation and her head fell back and bumped the back of her seat. On the exterior, she gave the look of resigned anger, but her interior was a different matter.

Her mind reflected on the last time she saw Mycroft, unconscious in the chair as the guards swarmed around him, cuffing his hands and binding his feet. She remembered how she felt Moran press the barrel of a gun into the small of her back as she wiped the lip stain off her mouth -- one couldn‘t have it on for too long without feeling its effects.

_“Excellent work Miss Adler.”_

_“Thank you. May I leave now?”_

_A dry chuckle emitted from Moran. “No. Turns out we have room on our train. Bratislava is beautiful this time of year. Care to join us?”_

_“If you insist.”_

Irene wasn’t a woman used to working with others. The word hopefully was rarely used, since she often found herself working with what tools she had on hand. But the dammed word kept insinuating itself into her thoughts.

It was a strange feeling to place trust in another person, Irene mused to herself. She trusted Mycroft would be resourceful enough to escape from the danger she placed him in, even though it was necessary that she do so. She trusted he’d be smart enough to find the ring she slipped into his trousers pocket as she removed his knives and pistol. She trusted that he’d be able to find their next location soon.

That was also a distinctly uncomfortable feeling as she went deeper into the lions‘ den, Irene thought. She was relying on another person to assist her in this matter as opposed to solving the problem alone. What if he was killed? How would she get out of this mess? How would she obtain the objective? What if she was killed soon? Was she going to be used as bait for Sherlock?

The questions kept spinning around in her head until she felt vaguely ill with worry and fear. Then she remembered something Mycroft said -- Whoever can see through all fear will always be safe. Irene took a deep breath and inwardly took an inventory.

She still had her stiletto in the front of her corset, lock picks in her garters and push daggers in her sleeves. Moran had divested her of her pistol as well as the lip stain, but that was to be expected. The closer you get to the goal, the more dangerous things become, she reminded herself. And this was the important time to remain calm.

There was no promise that Mycroft would be around to aid her, Irene thought. But it didn’t matter. She could handle this mission and even if she didn’t turn Reordan’s device over to the Secret Service, it would be a powerful bargaining tool with Moriarty.

Somehow she’d be able to escape -- she was Irene Adler. If she could outwit Sherlock Holmes twice, Moran would be a walk in the park.

~*~

For a woman held captive, the room her captors escorted Irene to was a definite step above some of the holding cells she escaped from in the past. Moran relocated the entire party to an estate just outside of Bratislava with a lovely view of the Devin ruins.

The party reached the estate -- a gated mansion with a small courtyard and coach house, which Dettwiler claimed as his workshop. Not that she had seen Dettwiler, but she observed that the coach house was humming with a bit of activity -- as well as other noises of a mechanical sort.

Irene heard the door lock behind her as her escorts left her to her room. She scanned the room. The window was open and airy, with a lovely view of the courtyard and the Devin ruins in the distance. The bed was comfortable and there were a few books available for her perusal. She was up on the second floor and watching the movements of people, the courtyard had at least two guards patrolling during the day. Knowing Moran, he’d probably keep a patrol going in the night too, Irene guessed.

The walls were smooth, which prevented the possibility of Irene climbing down the wall during an unguarded moment. The books weren’t that interesting to her, so Irene spent her time observing the movements of the guards. After awhile, it was clear that Moran and Moriarty paid well to have vaguely competent guards.

Irene listened at the door. It sounded like there wasn’t anyone outside her door. While it was tempting to pick the lock, she knew she wouldn’t make it out of the house without being caught. Then she’d be searched more thoroughly -- and perhaps worse.

No, the best thing to do was to wait for an opportune moment, she thought to herself, flopping on the bed with a frustrated sigh. Patience would be the key.

~*~

“Where do you think they’d be?” Sherlock asked his brother.

The carriage was moving at a fast clip. Sherlock made a bet that they would arrive in Bratislava between seven and eight at night. Mycroft argued that it would be earlier -- between six and seven in the evening. As a result, an 1851 bottle of Madeira was on the line. Even though they were facing a crisis, there was still plenty of time for a friendly bet.

Mycroft shrugged. “The city isn’t that big, but knowing them, they’ll be discreet,” he mused. “They’d need something big enough for a workshop -- there’s no way Dettwiler could work out of a room given some of the equipment needed. And a party that large would attract notice in the city.”

Sherlock pulled out a map of the city and the brothers examined it in silence as the scenery whipped by. “You’d need something large --”

“An estate --”

“Gated?”

“Of course,” Mycroft glanced at his brother. “Do you know how many men headed there?”

Sherlock’s face became thoughtful. “If I remember correctly, nine, not including Irene, Moran and Dettwiler,” he said. “Dettwiler and three men left in the morning, Irene, Moran and six men left shortly before lunch. I‘m willing to bet that one scouted out ahead to ensure the place was ready when Dettwiler arrived.”

Mycroft whistled and ran a hand through his hair. “They’d need something large enough to hold everyone,” he said, scanning the map. His memories of the past bubbled to the surface. Pointing to a location he said, “Here. I remember this place.”

“Do you?”

Mycroft nodded. “Mission I had with Harry years ago,” he said. “That’s Devin Castle outside of Bratislava. It’s far enough out of town that things can occur without much attention. Fairly rural and near a small town by the same name as the castle. Lucky for us, it’s not very populated, so a party that large would be memorable.”

“Any estates?”

Mycroft leaned back and thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Devin has them. If I remember correctly, I heard news that someone had purchased a country residence there very recently by a rather well-off merchant.”

The two brothers locked eyes and smiled. “Moriarty,” they said.

Mycroft nodded. “It was a front, but I don’t doubt it was him. A perfect backup location for work and other future activities. Discreet, quiet and out of the way.”

How far away is it from Bratislava?”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said. “We’ll be in the area tonight. Perfect cover -- no moon at all and it looks a bit cloudy.”

“What’s the plan then?”

Mycroft thought briefly. “You get the device,” he said. “I’ll get Irene.”

He could have sworn he saw his little brother roll his eyes. “Why do you insist on this plan?”

“Because you are quicker, lighter and stealthier than I,” Mycroft retorted. “You could easily find Dettwiler’s workshop, obtain the device and flee before they notice you.”

Sherlock snorted. “And you wouldn’t need stealth in a house full of guards and Moran?”

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh -- why did his brother always insist on questioning him? “The objective is the device,” he said. “That has to return to England and the odds are better with you going for that than me.”

Yet another snort emitted from his brother, indicating he suspected differently. “Your mission, your rules,” he mimicked his brother’s tone.

Mycroft chose to ignore the meaning behind Sherlock’s words, focusing instead on the map before him.

~*~

As the sun set, Irene sat quietly until she heard the door unlock. She had flipped through the books, but they were silly romances, which was not to her taste. Not that she was much of a reader in the first place. Irene could never sit still long enough to finish a book.

Two large men flanked the doorway. Irene was amused that Moran thought she was so threatening she required two brutes.

“Colonel Moran would like you to join him and Mr. Dettwiler for dinner,” one man said.

Irene nodded, stood and followed the speaker out of the room. The second man trailed behind her. It was a short walk before they stopped in front of a set of double doors. The first man opened the doors to an opulent dining room where Moran was sitting along with Dettwiler.

“Miss Adler,” her escort said as both Moran and Dettwiler stood.

Irene smiled slightly, then walked into the room, head held high, hips swaying slightly as she turned her charisma on like a gaslight chandelier explosion. She would be dammed before she let anyone think she’d be cowed by them.

“Colonel Moran,” she bowed slightly. “Mr. Dettwiler.”

Her eyes locked with Dettwiler. He was a handsome man up close, Irene noted. Dark hair combed neatly back, Van Dyke beard, sweet brown eyes. How he got into this mess, Irene could only guess. There was a hint of a smile from her to him and she then sat down in the seat Moran pulled out for her.

“I trust you find your accommodations adequate?” Moran asked, as a glass of wine was poured for Irene.

She took a sip -- a superb vintage, she noted -- and nodded. “It is quite nice,” she replied. “The view of the Devin ruins is fantastic. I do wish I could explore the courtyard though and get some fresh air.”

There was a low chuckle from Moran as he took a sip of his wine. “You know that’s not possible Miss Adler,” he said with a slight smile. “This beautiful bird must remain in her cage.”

“Really Colonel,” she said. “Given that you’ve got armed guard patrolling the facilities at all times, why on earth would you worry about me taking flight?”

Before Moran could answer, Dettwiler interjected, changing the subject. “Are you new to Devin Miss Adler?” he asked as the men who escorted Irene into the dining room served dinner.

She nodded. “Yes, but I have to say the ruins are quite beautiful,” she said, smiling at him slightly. Irene knew men like Dettwiler -- long on research, short on social interaction. She realized she hit her mark perfectly as a faint blush spread across his face. “So how is your research going?” she asked Dettwiler sweetly.

"It’s going well Miss Adler,” he stammered, much to her amusement.

"Please,” she focused her gaze on him. “Call me Irene.”

The rest of dinner was occupied with a lecture by Dettwiler about radio waves, electricity, coherer tubes and vacuum tubes. Irene’s expression was one of vacant and polite interest as her mind absorbed all the details he mentioned as well as the frustrations he was having in replicating what Reordan did. While it had been simple to take apart, replicating the device had become a thorn in Dettwiler’s side.

To her surprise, Moran seemed willing to let the lecture continue, despite the secrets that spilled forth from Dettwiler’s lips. Irene guessed that Moran was feeling cocky after Mycroft‘s capture and elimination. On occasion, Irene granted Moran with a slight smile as they both listened to Dettwiler prattle on with good humor. However, his treatment of her remained polite and businesslike.

“I must say, it’s been quite refreshing to have womanly company,” Dettwiler said once the dinner dishes were cleared away. “I’ve been locked away with my work and the men here for company. A woman’s presence is always refreshing.”

“It’s been an interesting evening,” Irene said with a smile. “I find it quite fascinating.”

“Indeed,” Moran muttered, sipping his sherry.

An amiable silence, as amiable as silence can get when one is being taken hostage, settled over the room.

“I was wondering if Colonel Moran would allow me to borrow you,” Dettwiler said abruptly.

Irene arched an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Your hands,” Dettwiler said, with a friendly smile.

Irene’s eyebrows arched further skyward.

“You see, the project I’m working on -- the detail work requires hands that are smaller and more delicate than mine,” Dettwiler reached forward and grasped Irene’s hand, feeling her fingers. “Your hands would be perfect for this situation.

“I suspect that this is why I’m having problems,” he said. “Mr. Reordan was smaller than me and I suspect that his fingers were able to do smaller detail work -- hence the transmitter is smaller, lighter and easier to transport than what I’ve been working on.”

Dettwiler stroked her hands thoughtfully. “But your hands are the perfect size,” he said. “They could probably replicate Reordan’s work beautifully.”

Irene smiled slightly at the compliment and blushed a slight pink, amazed at how quickly an opportunity had presented itself.

“But I don’t know what to do,” Irene interjected.

“I’d direct you my dear,” Dettwiler smiled shyly.

She glanced at Moran.

"Mr. Dettwiler and I were discussing this earlier,” Moran said. “He seems adamant that without further assistance the project won’t come to fruition.”

Irene nodded.

“Don’t get any ideas Miss Adler,” Moran added. “There will be guards watching you and Mr. Dettwiler.”

Irene nodded. “When would you like to get started Mr. Dettwiler?” she asked, turning her attention to him.

“How about now?” Dettwiler asked. “I feel like I’m on the verge of a breakthrough and could use the assistance right now before I lose focus.”

She smiled sweetly. “Tonight would be fantastic.”

~*~

Sherlock and Mycroft surveyed the exterior of the estate. After arriving in Bratislava at seven in the evening (the exact winner of the bet to be determined later given the priority of the mission), the pair hiked to the mansion, using Mycroft’s superlative memory as their map. The night was cool, with the only illumination coming from the stars and a hooded lantern. The roads were quiet and as they neared the estate, the two men chose to make their way through the woods, to retain some form of stealth.

In addition to the lantern, the men carried the suitcase, which was filled with a variety of tools needed for the mission. To camouflage themselves, they wore black pants and black coats, with the collars pulled high around their necks and dark hats pulled down low on their heads. Everything inside was padded to ensure that no noise would alert the guards.

A quick survey of the wall resulted in the two finding a climbable point in the wall. Sherlock quickly climbed up the wall, pressing his body down against the top of the wall. With a bit of effort, Mycroft soon followed and found himself flush against the wall.

Laying down, against the wall, the brothers surveyed the courtyard, mansion and coachhouse. From there, they saw two guards standing in front of the coachhouse, as well as two patrolling around the mansion, where the windows were lit up.

“I’d wager,” Sherlock whispered in a low voice, “that there’s guards inside the coachhouse. My guess is that’s where Dettwiler’s workshop would be.”

Mycroft nodded. “That is logical,” he said. “Depending on what chemicals he’s working with, that place could be an explosion hazard.”

“So what’s your thought?”

“How many smoke sticks do we have?” Mycroft asked.

“Six,” Sherlock said. “Do you have your pistols?”

Mycroft nodded. “My thought -- go down, start a smoke stick outside. That should attract some guards to go out and investigate. That gives you enough time to climb down and enter the complex -- if you could be so kind as to let me in somehow, that would be fantastic. If not, I’ll find my own way in.”

“Why are you going to go light the smoke sticks?”

Mycroft let out a small sigh of irritation. “Because baby brother,” he hissed as he began to climb down, “You’re the quicker one.

“Now I trust you not to be foolish, but I’ll remind you not to go until the area until it appears that the area is relatively clear.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about me brother dear,” he replied as Mycroft slipped down the wall.

Once on the ground, Sherlock dropped the carpet bag to Mycroft, who caught it with a dull thunk. Jogging some distance from the estate, Mycroft opened the bag and grabbed two smoke sticks. Inside the bag was also a length of a fuse for the sticks. He cut a length of fuse, timing it to allow him to sneak back to the mansion, then lit it and began sneaking back to the mansion.

Along the way, he smelled the heavy sulfurous scent of the sticks and coughed slightly, pulling his coat around his face to filter the scent. Mycroft soon heard the heavy footsteps of four guards heading in his direction.

He dropped down into the brush and lay flat, coat pulled up over his head, listening as the footsteps came and ran past him. Judging by the sound, he estimated that approximately four men came out initially to investigate. After the footsteps faded, Mycroft jogged back to the mansion. Seeing that the gate was still closed, he headed back to the point of the wall where he and Sherlock previously were and climbed up the wall. Looking over the edge, he smiled, observing the ladder Sherlock had moved over for him.

Quickly he climbed down and ducked into the shadows. Looking around the courtyard, Mycroft observed the guards previously seen outside the buildings were gone. He began sneaking to the house, knowing that time was running out. The smoke sticks wouldn’t last long, but hopefully they’d keep the guards occupied for awhile.

~*~

“Don’t fret Miss Adler,” Dettwiler murmured. “You’re doing splendidly. I’m amazed at how quickly you’ve been able to learn this.”

She looked up at him. He was leaning across the table, his coat and vest removed. His had rolled up his shirtsleeves. In another time and another place, Irene would have found him attractive on his own merits. But right now, she was on a mission. Seduction would have to wait.

Not to mention, there were two guards standing inside the room near the doorway staring at her suspiciously.

“Please, call me Irene, and thank you,” she smiled slightly. “I must confess this is a bit out of my range.”

Dettwiler smiled slightly. “I highly doubt that.”

Her smile got bigger. “I take it Colonel Moran warned you?”

Dettwiler nodded, chuckling softly. “He said you were a rogue of the first degree,” he said. “Now, the next step is a bit tricker.” He came around the table with some wires. “This is where I’ve been having a devil of a time. The wires have to be bent just so and placed into the tube --” he pointed to the drawings. “One must be careful because otherwise the glass can overheat and explode.”

“Really?” Irene looked over at him.

He nodded. “I’ve been having problems for awhile now simply because the wires get crossed. You don’t want to know how many fires I’ve dealt with.”

Before Dettwiler could say more, one guard entered the room and quietly spoke to the other two guards. The guard then came to Dettwiler and whispered in his ear. The man nodded and made a slight hand motion as the guards exited the building. None of the men took their eyes off of her.

“Something wrong?” Irene asked.

“Not sure,” he said quietly. “But the men are investigating. In any case, we’re safe here for now.” There was a change in his expression -- it became more formal, more businesslike, colder. “Irene --”

“Yes?” she asked cautiously, feeling him move behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Did you aid Mycroft in any way?” She felt a slight pressure around her neck and shoulder as Dettwiler’s grip tightened on her.

Irene shook her head. “Why would I? He practically blackmailed me into working for him.” She quickly glanced around the table -- glass tubing, copper wiring, some devices used for welding -- improvised weapons if need be. She felt herself tense a little in anticipation of his next move.

Dettwiler seemed to relax a bit and his grip lessened around her neck. “That’s good,” he said softly, removing his hands from around her neck, sliding them down her shoulders. “I’d hate to be disappointed by someone who is so captivating as you.”

Irene sucked in a breath. She felt like she was walking on a tightrope and she knew that whatever drew the guards away from the estate, Mycroft was behind it. This was the moment to make her move.

She turned around, resting her body against his table. Dettwiler’s eyes widened slightly as his hands moved to either side of Irene, effectively pinning her under him. She could see his breathing deepen and he licked his lips slightly.

“In any case,” she leaned a little closer to Dettwiler with a sly smile. “Where were we?”

~*~

Sherlock snuck around the coach house, preparing to enter through the door. He had seen the smoke rising in the forest and the guards muttering about it before they headed out to investigate. He was mildly surprised that they would send out four guards to investigate some smoke and flaring light.

That would not do, he thought to himself. There had to be guards inside that building. Instead, he decided to wait a bit. After a few moments, the door opened and two guards came out to begin patrolling the grounds. Sherlock waited until the guards vanished around a corner before sliding the door open and entering the building.

Holding the pistol close to him he surveyed the brightly lit room. The main floor had a single worktable, where he saw Dettwiler locked in an embrace with a woman. The woman was sitting on the table, her legs locked around Dettwiler and her hands wound through his hair. Slowly, the arms pulled back and Dettwiler fell to the floor, unconscious. A familiar face glared at him.

Sherlock couldn‘t help but grin crookedly at the sight of her. Before he knew it, she leaped off of the table, flew across the room and punched him in the nose.

~*~

Mycroft watched the guards move around the perimeter. By observing their movements and behaviors, he was able to draw them away from the gate by judiciously tossing a couple smoke sticks over the wall, causing them to go out and investigate.

Now the courtyard was empty, but he could hear shouts of the guards calling back and forth to each other as they investigated the smoke sticks. Knowing that time was of the essence, he snuck into the mansion, which appeared to be quiet and abandoned.

Checking the lower level, he found the kitchen, sitting room and office (sadly, but not surprisingly no documents of interest), everything was spartanly furnished and quiet. The lanterns burned brightly and the entire house was quiet. There was no sign of Irene.

Mycroft crept upstairs, listening carefully at each door, unsure of where Irene would be held captive. It appeared that all the guards were out of the mansion. While it was tempting to let paranoia take over and prevent him from completing the mission as he pondered where exactly the other guards were, Mycroft knew better. Strike now while the majority is gone, he thought as he padded around the hallways softly.

As he passed one room, the familiar scent of Irene’s perfume pervaded his nostrils. Slowly, quietly, he walked over to the door and opened it, hoping to find the woman.

Instead, he saw Moran sitting on Irene’s bed, with a bottle of wine, two wineglasses, a bunch of roses and a pistol pointed at him.

“My, my Mr. Holmes,” Moran said with a chuckle. “It turns out you are a hard man to kill.”

~*~

  
“It’s good to see you too Irene,” Sherlock said, clutching his nose.

“That’s for getting me involved in this entire mess,” she spat out, glaring at him.

Sherlock pulled his hands away, wary that she would hit him again. He looked over her shoulder at Dettwiler. “What on earth did you do to him?” he asked.

“You remember Prague?” she asked him. “How I got away from you?”

Sherlock blanched slightly at the memory. “That was not sporting,” he retorted. “Wrapping your legs around someone in coitus and squeezing until they blacked out from lack of oxygen is not a ladylike thing to do.”

“Who said I was a lady?” Irene shot back, smiling slightly and warming to the old routine. “Besides, this wasn’t coitus. It was just a kiss.”

Sherlock snorted, then went over to examine Dettwiler. Indeed he was unconscious, but not dead. Knowing the trick Irene had used, he knew Dettwiler would not be a factor for some time.

Rummaging around the workshop, Irene produced a length of rope, which Sherlock took and used to securely bind Dettwiler’s arms and legs.

“Did you use that trick on Mycroft?” Sherlock asked as he shoved a handkerchief into Dettwiler’s mouth.

Irene shook her head. “He’s much too large for that. I‘m not that flexible.”

Sherlock shuddered at the image that ran through his brain. “I’m sorry I asked,” he said.

It was strange, Irene thought for a moment. She expected seeing Sherlock again would be awkward or uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. They slid into their old pattern of friendly antagonism perfectly. It just felt different -- like friends instead of lovers.

Sherlock examined the table. “He had you doing the transmitter?” he chuckled. “Did he even realize who he was dealing with?”

Irene smiled and folded up a set of plans in a neat design that she tucked into her skirt pocket. “I doubt it. They keep calling me a rogue and a common thief --”

“No, you’re an uncommon thief,” Sherlock retorted with a low chuckle, wrapping Reorden’s prototype up in a handkerchief and pocketing it.

“So where is your dear brother?” Irene asked.

“In the mansion -- looking for you.”

Irene’s face blanched. “Where Moran is?” there was a slight tone of panic in her voice.

Sherlock nodded. “He should be fine -- he’s got the case full of guns and equipment,” their eyes locked for a moment.

“I’m going after him,” they both said at the same time.

Irene shook her head. “Don’t,” she said. “They don’t know that you’re already here. Try and keep the guards busy, I’ll go to get Mycroft.”

“He’s my brother,” Sherlock said, with some venom in his voice. “But there is no time to argue over this and you do have some logic to your point,“ he sighed. “But what will you say when Dettwiler doesn’t go with you?”

Irene smiled at her victory. “Don’t worry about me. You’re in a workshop full of chemicals, wires and possible explosives -- you’re in your element. Create a good distraction.”

She took a few steps to him and gave him a small, chaste kiss on the lips as he handed her his pistol. There wasn’t passion or fire in it, but it held a great deal of affection.

“What was that for?” Sherlock said, holding his fingers to his lips, waiting to see if he would fall unconscious from drugged lipstick or some other trick.

“That’s for introducing me to Mycroft,” she said with a slight smile, before slipping out the door.

~*~

Mycroft stared down the barrel of Moran’s pistol. _Webley “British Bulldog” revolver, 1891 model produced by Webley & Scott with a five-round cylinder and maximum range of 20 yards. This model takes .450 Adams bullets -- heavy caliber bullets. Knowing how he favors long-range weapons, this may be a hindrance to his shooting technique, but at close range, a fatal hit is guaranteed._

“My, my Mr. Holmes,” Moran chuckled. “It turns out you are a hard man to kill.”

Mycroft smiled. “I got a lucky break from your men’s incompetence,” he said.

“That may be true,” Moran said, “but you were foolish to continue your mission.” He looked at Mycroft’s bag. “If you would set that down on the ground please.”

Mycroft gently set the bag down and held his hands up. “I’m surprised you’re in Miss Adler’s room,” he said. “Did you two become close friends?” he tone was neutral.

Moran shrugged. “That’s none of your business,” he said with a slight smile. “It’s interesting though that you came looking for her instead of going to the workshop. Do you have a partner here?”

Mycroft schooled his features to remain still, but cursed inwardly -- of course the plans would have to become muddled badly. Missions were never simple. “No,” he said softly. “Sadly, my emotions took over in this case.”

There was a dry chuckle. “Oh my,” Moran said. “The esteemed Mycroft Holmes has fallen in love?”

Mycroft smirked. “That’s a strong word,” he said. “I’d call it an overdeveloped sense of chivalry.”

The pistol remained trained on Mycroft as the two men stared at each other for a bit. Mycroft idly wondered why Moran hadn’t shot him yet, but also thanked the fates for their intervention.

“So have you reconsidered my superior’s offer?” Moran asked.

Mycroft’s smirk widened slightly. “You know, I was wondering if you’d be willing to help out Her Majesty,” he replied. “I mean, given your connections with the underworld, we might be willing to overlook some -- indiscretions -- in exchange for us leaving you alone.”

It was almost imperceptible, but Mycroft could tell Moran was considering his offer. “Sadly, I can’t agree or disagree to your proposal, given that my superior is not here.”

Mycroft nodded. “Well, we all could leave here, go back to England and you could make your offer and we’ll go from there,” he said thoughtfully.

There was a snort. “And who would have Reordan’s device?” Moran asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “Well, if you turned it over to us, that would be a sign of your willingness to cooperate.”

“I don’t think my superior would like that,” Moran said, cocking the gun. “I’m sorry, but I’m disinclined to acquiesce to your request.”

“He can learn,” Mycroft chuckled. “So now what? Since we’re at am impasse?”

“I shoot you.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bad idea, given my connections?” Mycroft ran thorough all the possibilities in his head. Sadly all of them ended with his death, which was a damn shame.

“It’s a risk,” Moran said thoughtfully. “But honestly, they knew you were going on this mission and since your job was to steal it back from us, your death would be a tragic thing that they planned for.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You know the government so well,” he said. His arms ached slightly from holding them up in the air, but he tried to ignore the pain. Time seemed to slow down and he could feel a small edge of panic rise up in him, but he forced himself to quell it.

How do I know that enjoying life is not a delusion? Mycroft thought to himself. How do I know that in hating death we are not like people who got lost in early childhood and do not know the way home?

“So are you going to shoot me now?” Mycroft asked idly.

Moran shook his head and stood. “No, it would be traced back to us,” he said with a cold smile. “We’re going for a walk.”

~*~

Irene trotted out of the coachhouse in time to see Moran and Mycroft march out of the mansion. Judging by the distance between the two, Irene guessed that Moran had a gun pointed to Mycroft’s back. Mycroft carried a hooded lantern in front of them. She ducked into the shadows and watched as the two men headed past the gates and into the forest.

Deciding that she didn’t have time to warn Sherlock about the situation, Irene quickly followed the two, slipping out of the gate as quietly as possible. Following them was fairly simple, given the light of the lantern, but the brambles kept snagging in her skirts and Irene remained ever-alert to the sounds of the guards calling back and forth in their confusion. Nothing would be worse than accidentally running into a guard as she was tailing Moran and Mycroft.

The three of them walked for an indeterminable period before they stopped in a clearing.

“Very good Mr. Holmes,” she heard Moran say. “Now put down the lantern.”

Mycroft set down the lantern and turned to face Moran, who tossed a shovel at him.

“Now dig,” Moran said, motioning with his gun.

Mycroft removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves and took the shovel. The sound of the shovel cutting through the dirt caused Irene to wince slightly, because she -- like the rest of them -- knew exactly what was occurring.

Irene checked her inventory -- she had a pistol with five bullets, the push daggers in her sleeves and a dagger in her boots. She also fingered the plans she had in her skirt pocket and slowly an idea began for form in her head.

“Colonel Moran,” she called, stepping out of the shadows and into the pool of light, ignoring the fact that Mycroft stopped shoveling and fixed a venomous glare at her. In one hand she held the pistol and in the other was the plans.

“Miss Adler,” Moran smiled slightly.

“I have come to negotiate for the release of Mycroft Holmes.”

“You foolish woman,” Mycroft snapped at her. “You should be fleeing the scene right now.”

Irene smiled slightly. “Keep that up and I’ll take these plans and sell them to someone else,” she replied, never taking her eyes off Moran. “Maybe another country? Say America?”

Both Moran and Mycroft snorted in derision at that suggestion. Irene suppressed a chuckle at their united view of her home country.

“So you’re switching sides yet again?” Moran asked, motioning for her to come over.

She shrugged. “Who said I switched in the first place?” She slowly approached Moran.

“Give me the plans.”

Irene shook her head, unfolded them and held them in front of Moran’s face. “You can see, these are the plans Dettwiler was using to make the device,” she said. “Now, they’re the only good set we have -- everything else is prototypes and failures.”

“Speaking of the good scientist, where is he?” Moran locked eyes with Irene.

“Temporarily inconvenienced,” she said, folding up the plans again. Irene could hear Mycroft chuckle behind her. “But he’s not dead, so you still have someone who can build the device.”

“So what are you proposing my dear?”

“You get the plans, I get Mycroft,” she replied. “Simple as that. We call it a stalemate for now.”

Moran shrugged. “What prevents me from shooting Mr. Holmes right now?”

“Me shooting you,” Irene replied coldly, cocking her gun.

“Point taken,” Moran said. “Now give me the plans.”

Irene pulled her hand back. “Not yet,” she said, walking backwards. When she got next to Mycroft she dropped the plans in the hole. “If you would be a dear,” she said to Mycroft, still keeping her eyes on Moran, “Cover the hole.”

Mycroft chuckled and began covering the plans with the dirt. Once the hole was full, he patted it down, donned his jacket and stood next to Irene.

“Now you can dig those plans up when we’re gone,” Irene said, grabbing Mycroft’s arm and walking backwards. “If you don’t obey, I will shoot you where you stand.”

Moran smiled grimly. “You are a dangerous woman, Irene Adler,” he replied, keeping the pistol trained on her. “We will hunt you down and destroy you.”

Irene smiled slightly. “That’s what you think,” she said as Mycroft guided her backwards. “All I have to do is escape.”

They walked backwards out of the lantern light in silence, with Mycroft‘s hand navigating her along. Irene was taking deep breaths and she could feel her heart pounding. Adrenaline thrummed through her veins and she badly wanted to run, but willed herself to remain calm.

“You realize you can turn around now,” Mycroft said softly, squeezing her arm. “I think we’re out of the range of his gun.”

Irene moved closer to him. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she glanced over at Mycroft‘s form. His expression was inscrutable in the dark, even though they were standing chest to chest. Standing on her tiptoes, she wound her fingers through his hair and drew him down to her for a kiss. His mouth opened under hers and she let out a soft moan as his tongue swept through her mouth.

Mycroft pulled back. “You’re still a foolish woman,” he whispered in her ear.

“Stubborn,” she smiled, grabbing his hand as they both began to walk quickly through the forest. Soon they could hear the sound of Moran screaming for the guards to find them.

As the two moved silently through the forest, they heard the sounds of guard calling and footsteps behind them. Occasionally there was a flash of light from a lantern, which caused them both to drop to the ground, breathing heavily.

“So how are we going to get out of this one?” Irene whispered in Mycroft’s ear as they lay in a bush.

There was a low chuckle. “I thought you’d know,” he replied. “It’s your rescue idea.”

“How far are we from town?”

“Bit and awhile,” Mycroft whispered. “They’d be watching the roads anyways.”

“Indeed.”

The two of them lay there in silence in the brush, watching the lights cut through the woods and listening to the guards shout back and forth. A feeling of dread rose in Irene as the shouts and the footsteps got closer. Glancing over at Mycroft, she saw the same cool countenance she expected from him.

Irene pulled the pistol closer to her and prepared for the worst when the an explosion rocked the forest. A volley of startled birds flew up as the entire area lit up in orange flames. Their pursuers gawped backwards at the fire.

Taking advantage of that, Mycroft and Irene sprang up and began running through the brush away from the fire. Irene could feel her skirts catch in the branches and plants and hear the ripping of cloth. Once or twice she nearly fell, but Mycroft held her steady around her waist as they ran.

An oncoming shadow flew at them with a startled, “Hey!” But before any more could be said, Irene cocked the pistol and fired a shot. The man fell down screaming in pain before discharging his gun in their general direction. Mycroft pulled her behind him with a wheezy chuckle.

They soon stumbled on the road and turned, quickly running. From there, they could see the sky glowing orange and a steady stream of smoke rising from the horizon.

Before they knew it, a carriage pulled up next to them. Irene whipped around, pistol pointed at the drive.

Both her and Mycroft let out a laugh of relief when she saw the driver. “Is that enough of a distraction?” Sherlock asked smugly.

Irene jumped in, pulling Mycroft onto her lap as Sherlock whipped the horses into running. It wasn’t until they were in the carriage fleeing that Irene felt the wetness on her hands. Or noticed that Mycroft had gone very, very pale and had trouble breathing.

“Mycroft --” she choked out. “Turn around.”

He shook his head. “You know what’s going on. Tell me what is going on,” he coughed.

“One of the bullets hit you. “

He nodded, “Smart girl,” he wheezed, before closing his eyes.

Irene felt the carriage’s speed increase. Clearly Sherlock heard their conversation. She stripped his coat off to examine the wound. Breathing a sigh of relief, Irene saw that the bullet grazed his torso, close to his back. She pulled out a handkerchief and put pressure on the wound, hoping to slow the bleeding.

Wrapping her arms around him, Irene whispered softly in his ear, “You’re lucky it’s a flesh wound Mycroft. If you were to die, I’d sell those plans, buy an island and never come back. Instead, you have to contend with me.”

~*~

“What the devil did you do to that estate?” Mycroft glared at Sherlock.

“It’s nice to see you’ve made a full recovery,” Sherlock replied dryly, wishing that the hostess had given his brother more morphine.

“It was only a flesh wound,” Mycroft retorted. “And you’re avoiding my question. What the devil did you do? And where is Irene?”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, wishing that he had his Morocco case with him. Not for him, mind you, but so he could tranquilize his brother in to rest as opposed to him issuing orders from bed like a belligerent bull moose.

After riding all night in the carriage, with Sherlock and Irene taking turns trading driving duties, the trio arrived at a country house outside of St. Poelten that was owned by one of Harry‘s former wives. Marie was a youthful slight woman, married to a laborer and completely unsurprised when the trio turned up at her door as the dark night sky began to turn a pale blue.

“Harry warned me you might be stopping by,” she said dryly. “I have one guest room set up,” she glanced at Mycroft’s unconscious form in the carriage. “Bring him in and get him set up in the bed. I’ll have a look at him after I hide the carriage out back.”

Irene and Sherlock didn’t bother questioning Marie as they dragged Mycroft’s body into the guest room. The two stripped him of his clothing and rolled him over to examine the wound. The angry red gash was still bleeding and Irene kept the pressure on his back as much as possible with his shirt.

After what seemed to be a too-long time period, Marie entered the room with a doctor’s kit, a bowl of water and some rags. Shooing Irene and Sherlock out of the room , she shut the door with the curt phrase, “I need to do some work.”

Irene and Sherlock sat together in the tiny drawing room, listening to the birds chirp outside as the light warmed from a pale blue to pinks and then a sunny yellow. Sherlock lit two cigarettes and offered one to Irene.

She inhaled on it, breathing deeply to steady her nerves.

“Quite a night,” he said, breaking the silence finally.

She nodded. “What did you do?” she finally asked after a long silence.

Sherlock’s face bloomed into a wicked grin. “Well, it turns out our dear friend Dettwiler had some aluminum powder, which I could easily combine with iron oxide, or rust. There were also some ribbons of magnesium from his experiments laying around, so all of that combined --” his voice trailed off.

Irene’s mind made the connection. She remembered the gas lights burning in the room. “That? Those chemicals normally don’t cause an explosion,” she said with a slight grin.

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes, well, I had heard of some work by a Hans Goldschmidt, and read some of his works on welding and extrapolated from there,” he replied. “The result was fantastic heat and light, which got all the guard running back to the compound. During that time, I managed to secure a carriage and horses to flee the scene.”

Irene emitted a soft chuckle. “You didn’t kill Dettwiler did you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Of course not my dear,” he replied. “I do have some scruples. I dragged outside of the building and left him in the courtyard. I figured the fire would attract enough people to keep Moran and his men busy for awhile.”

“Indeed.”

There was a long silence between the two of them. Irene exhaled a stream of smoke and watched it dance in a beam of sunlight.

“I have to go,” she said. “Moriarty will be looking for me.”

Sherlock nodded. He knew their was another reason -- Irene simply couldn’t stay in one place for long. Being tied to Mycroft in that manner would kill her, he realized.

“He’s not going to like it is he?”

Sherlock shook his head. “You know he can protect you from Moriarty,” he said, exhaling deeply.

“Really Sherlock,” she said with a slight smile. “For how long?”

“Point taken.”

Irene stood up and smoothed her skirts. “Tell him I’ll see him around alright?” she said with a slight smile. “I’ll see you later.”

Sherlock watched her leave and listened as the door opened and shut. Then he heard the guest room door open and close. Marie entered the room, wiping her hands.

“He’ll live,” she said. “Luckily it was only a flesh wound, so it just required some stitching. I’ve given him some morphine to get him to sleep a bit. You two should be ready to leave by the evening.”

Sherlock nodded.

That was approximately four hours ago. Now Sherlock stood in front of his brother, getting a severe dressing-down, despite the fact that Mycroft was in bed, propped up by pillows.

“Answer me Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Where is Irene?”

Sherlock sighed. “You sound like a lovesick swain,” he said.

“Bollocks. Where is she?”

“She left while Marie was stitching you up,” Sherlock replied. “Said she was afraid of Moriarty seeking vengeance.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Did she give you the plans?” he snapped.

Sherlock blinked in realization.

“I can’t believe that my little brother -- supposedly the most brilliant mind in the world -- was bested by Irene Adler, not once, not twice, not three, but four times.”

Sherlock could feel a blush spread across his face.

“Do you at least have the prototype?” Mycroft hissed.

Sherlock rummaged through his pockets. There was the handkerchief wrapped up, and he drew it out of his pocket. Opening it, he didn’t find the device but an iron rod approximating the same weight and size of the device, which fell to the ground with a thud.

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. “Go get her,” he spat out. “Leave now and go get her. I am returning to London. People are expecting me to report. If you’re not there with Miss Adler, the device and the plans within three days of my return, I am going to set your Stradivarius on fire.”

Sherlock nodded, backpedaling out of the room. Given the fact that they grew up together, he didn’t doubt for a moment that Mycroft would set fire to his violin.

~*~

One day later, he caught up to her in Calais of all places. Irene opened the door to her hotel room, knowing by the scratching at her door lock that Sherlock was there. There was no point in playing coy -- Irene knew exactly what was occurring. She was just disappointed it wasn’t Mycroft at her door.

“Sherlock,” she smiled brightly. “I’m surprised he sent you to retrieve me.” Unlike previous meetings in hotel rooms, Irene was dressed impeccably in a dark blue dress instead of nearly nothing.

He ran his hand sheepishly through his dark hair. “He’s threatened the Stradivarius.” Sherlock glanced around the room, noting that there was a bucket of ice with champagne in it and two glasses sitting nearby. “I take it you weren’t expecting me?”

Noting the flush that spread across her cheeks, he nodded and stepped into the room. Before she could react, Sherlock moved her arms behind her and slipped on a pair of handcuffs.

“I’m sorry Irene,” he muttered. “But Mycroft means business this time.”

She sat down on the bed, heaving a sigh. “I’ve upset him haven’t I?”

Sherlock began rummaging through the room, searching for the plans. “A bit,” he admitted. Tapping the inside of her trunk, he found the hollow bottom and opened it. “Ah,” he said, pulling out the plans and the prototype. A quick examination proved that they were the legitimate items and not counterfeits.

“Are you going to take that to him?” Irene asked, a mask of cool nonchalance slipping over her face.

Sherlock shook his head and packed up the suitcase. “No,” he said. “You will.”

Irene raised an eyebrow.

“He wants to see you.”

~*~

It was like the first time they met -- the same dark office, dimly lit with a single lamp. However, instead of wearing only a dressing gown and darbies, Irene sat with her hands in her lap and the case by her side. She was also fully conscious.

Sherlock had escorted her into the room, handed Mycroft the case, Mycroft then handed Sherlock a violin case, which the younger Holmes opened. Finding things to his satisfaction he exited the room. Now Mycroft was sitting across from her. He was dressed impeccably in a dark black suit. The scruff was shaved cleanly off and his hair was neatly combed back.

“Miss Adler,” Mycroft sonorously said.

“Mr. Holmes,” she replied. “I take it you well?”

He nodded.

“Do you have everything to your satisfaction?” She asked. The silence from him was unnerving. It felt like they were back at the beginning -- except that she couldn’t ignore the time they had together. But if this was the little game he wanted to play, so be it.

“I trust you,” he replied. “I know you ran off in an attempt to get my attention.”

Irene’s cheeks burned. “I will admit, I was hoping you would continue the chase -- or consider coming away with me,” she said softly.

Mycroft chuckled. “When one is in my position, it is difficult to get away,” he said softly. “However, I did not summon you here to reprimand you.”

Irene raised and eyebrow. “Really?”

“I have an offer.”

She leaned back in her seat. “Do tell.”

“We could use a woman like you.”

Irene bit back a smart reply, but she saw Mycroft’s eyes twinkle slightly. Obviously he had caught the thought that ran through her head.

“In what position?” she asked, putting no weight on the last word. It didn’t need the innuendo. She knew he’d figure it out.

“Intelligence,” Mycroft replied briskly, keeping his tone businesslike. “Given your --” he paused slightly, “talents, I think you’d be perfect for this.”

Irene smiled -- she could feel the room get slightly warmer and an electric charge flow between them. “What would you have me do?”

He bit back a smirk. “You would do simply what you do now, but report to me any interesting tidbits you would learn.”

Irene leaned back in the chair and thought about it. Mycroft studied her expression carefully as she mulled things over.

“And if I say no?”

Mycroft shrugged. “The door is there Miss Adler,” he replied.

Irene stood and went to the door and listened. There was nothing but the usual sound of typing and filing. She opened the door and glanced about. No one was there.

She returned to Mycroft, the desk separating the two of them. “I’m disinclined to acquiesce to your request,” she replied.

Now it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nodded. “The adventure we had was quite educational,” Irene replied. “But quite honestly, I don’t work well with others. I prefer to be alone.”

Mycroft nodded. “In that case,” he said, filing his papers carefully. “We have nothing else to discuss. Your past record with Scotland Yard and other law enforcement agencies in England is now clean. You may leave.”

“Goodbye Mr. Holmes,” she said before turning and leaving.

“Goodbye Miss Adler,” he said, watching her leave.

After his office door closed, Mycroft returned to reading his files. Another door opened and he heard someone enter.

“Do you think she’ll return?” he heard Stibbons ask. “I’d wager she will.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “I honestly don’t know,” he replied softly.

“You don’t know?” there was a tinge of worry in Stibbons’ voice.

A slight smile danced across Mycroft’s face briefly. “No,” he replied. “It’s a most peculiar, if exhilarating, feeling.”

~*~

Mycroft’s eyes grew heavy and he began dozing in front of the fireplace at the club. It had been three days since he returned home and he was slowly getting back into the routine of life after his last adventure. The past few days had been a flurry of dealing with briefing the proper authorities and handing over Reordan’s device to the secret service.

Since releasing Irene from custody, he had not received word from her. Sherlock also had no information about her for him. It was Sherlock’s supposition that she was lying low for now, before moving on to different territory.

Not that it really mattered to Mycroft. He never expected her to stay around for long and he certainly never expected her to return after she rejected his offer. A lesser man might have felt a pang of disappointment, but Mycroft wasn’t a lesser man. Or at least, he liked to think he wasn’t a lesser man.

He wasn’t sure how long he was sleeping when he felt the pressure of soft lips on his mouth. That caused him to break out in an involuntary smile as Irene’s perfume flooded his senses. His eyes flashed open and he was rewarded with the sight of her, dressed in menswear, her hair tucked up under a coachman’s hat.

Despite her best effort to look the part, Mycroft could make out every curve of her body under the trousers that hugged her hips and the vest that accentuated her waist. Mycroft didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d always be able to pick Irene out of a crowd.

Irene put a finger to her lips, as if to warn him not to violate the rules of the club he founded. Before she could do anything else, Mycroft grabbed her wrists and pulled her onto his lap so she was straddling him.

As founder, Mycroft knew that his chair was large enough to hide the fact that he was fraternizing with another person, as opposed to leaving them alone.

“Miss Adler,” he whispered in her ear, taking little nibbles along her lobe and relishing how she shivered in his lap. “I have to say that I am a man who is rarely surprised, but you’ve succeeded in that endeavor.”

He was pleased to see Irene’s body shake in silent laughter.

“I came to say goodbye,” she whispered. “I’m off to the Continent for a bit of fun.”

Mycroft chuckled softly. “Of course,” he replied, one hand moving to slide up her shirt, while the other arm held her firmly to him.

She pulled back and stared at him. There wasn’t sadness, anger or malice in his face. It was the expression of a person who knew exactly what Irene was doing and was perfectly fine with it. It was an expression that she hadn’t seen out of another man in a long time -- so long that she wasn’t even sure any man had that expression with her.

“You’re not angry I won’t work with you?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I will admit, I am a bit disappointed, but it’s for other reasons,” he said softly. “I thought we made a rather potent team.”

Irene wrapped her arms around him. “We did, didn‘t we?” she chuckled softly.

He nodded.

She leaned over and kissed him again. “You know,” Irene whispered in his mouth, “I could be persuaded to work with you again.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No,” he said, kissing her tenderly, before he whispered in her ear. “It’s your choice. It’s who you are and I would never ask less of you.”

She could hear the truth in his words. When most people said those words, it never lasted, but she sensed that with Mycroft, she could bet the Maharajah‘s diamond on them. As a result, she could feel herself on the verge of saying something -- something that she had said to other men before in the past, but never really meant.

It was a frightening and unfamiliar feeling, like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking out at the expanse below before jumping. She could feel terror and excitement coil in her stomach, creating a dizzying sense of uncertainty. The words were caught in her throat, but her vocal cords wouldn’t let her say them.

As a result, she couldn’t help but lean forward and take his mouth with hers.

The kiss initially started languorous as they got reacquainted, but it got more fevered and frantic as burning want began to smolder in their spines. Mycroft’s fingers quickly unbuttoned her waistcoat and shirt and he was pleased to find that she wasn’t wearing a corset. A thin chemise covered her skin and he relished the way she moaned when his thumbs brushed over his nipples, before taking her necklace between his fingers.

Mycroft let out a low chuckle as he pulled the necklace up and studied the shilling in the firelight. His mouth then moved down, blazing a trail of kisses along her neck. Irene’s hands wound into his hair and her hips slid flush against his body, causing him to respond even more to her.

“Mr. Holmes, this is entirely improper behavior at your club,” Irene whispered.

She was rewarded with a soft groan. “My dear,” he whispered, before taking one breast in his mouth, his tongue teasing her nipple as the silky chemise moved over it, “I founded this club. And the rules are against talking. There is nothing against more stimulating activities,” he said as one hand slid to cup her bottom.

Technically, Irene was in violation of the rules, given that she approached him, he thought with some amusement. But he also sensed that by the end of this encounter, many, many other rules were going to be violated. Then again, he was founder of the club and being the founder of a club did have its perks sometimes, Mycroft mused.

Mycroft’s hands began unbuttoning her trousers and one hand slid down the back to cup her bottom. Irene smiled slightly, as she began to rut against him.

His fingers moved forward and brushed against her inner thighs and she let out a breathy sigh, adjusting herself to allow him better access. Her arousal began to intensify as his tongue teased one nipple to the point where pleasure and pain blended into the same gorgeous sensation, before moving onto the other breast.

She pulled back to study Mycroft’s expression. There was a twinkle in his eye that suggested that he was up to no good at all. Then she felt his hands slide under her bottom and stroke her inner thighs. Irene bit her lip to keep from moaning loudly as her hips ground against him, rubbing against his erection.

His hand moved out of her trousers and she nearly let out a sigh of disappointment, before she felt it dip down below her waistband again -- this time in the front -- and his fingers rubbed around her clit. Slowly one finger entered her, then his thumb began stroking around her, as she writhed under his touch.

The sensation of him sucking, nipping and teasing her breasts made it difficult for her to concentrate as she wiggled in his lap. Her hands grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself as her breath came out in little pants. She could feel herself getting wetter under his touch and the sheer want was overwhelming all sensible thought that she had.

Then the second finger slipped in and the motions Mycroft made with his hand nearly caused her to scream. Fortunately, he pulled away from her breasts and caught her mouth with his as he thrust his fingers in and out of her. She could feel her body contracting and convulsing as the first wave of the orgasm began to break over her.

“That’s it sweetheart,” he whispered into her ear, nipping at the lobe. “I want to feel you.”

One hand gripped Mycroft’s back as the orgasm hit. Irene lost all of her senses, focusing only on the pleasure emanating from her body and the low chuckle in her ear. She gasped and buried her mouth on his neck to keep from screaming as her body rocked against him, rubbing against his clothed erection, which caused him to emit a low groan.

Mycroft’s fingers were still inside her as the orgasm dissipated. When she pulled back, she kissed him and chuckled softly.

“But if you insist, we can adjourn to my house near here,” he whispered, resuming their conversation. “Perhaps we can negotiate a future partnership.”

She shivered. “You’d actually trust me in your house?” she replied, pulling away to study his face. His expression was earnest.

“My dear, if you wanted to take something of mine, it is yours to take,” he retorted, flicking his fingers inside her. “Those things don’t mean much. Now this,” he said, mouthing her nipple softly and relishing the soft gasp she gave, “This is more valuable than the Crown‘s jewels.” Mycroft smiled slightly, savoring how wet she was under his ministrations. She was still tight and convulsing under his touch. He pulled his hand out of her and wiped his wet fingers on his trousers.

Irene let out a disappointed sigh. “If we must,” she whispered in his ear, taking the time to nibble at his lobe. “We were getting so cozy.“

She leaned back and buttoned her shirt and waistcoat before standing up. Mycroft watched her exit the room, savoring the way the trousers hugged her hips.

After a discreet amount of time, Mycroft left the club. The walk was a short one to his Pall Mall home and as he headed up the steps, he spied Irene leaning against the post like an insouciant young man.

“Do you realize,” Mycroft said thoughtfully as she followed him up the stairs, “That during our meeting earlier, I had the most wicked thought?” The tone of his voice was similar to discussing a particularly interesting treaty.

“Really?” Irene said in a neutral tone.

“I had the most delicious image of you bent over my desk, skirts up as I took you from behind,” Mycroft said in a low voice as he unlocked the door and opened it.

A jolt of desire ran though Irene. “I’m surprised you didn’t act on that urge,” she said.

Before she could say more, she felt Mycroft grab the lapels of her coat, effectively dragging her inside, before shutting the door. With a bit more force than she anticipated, Irene found herself pinned up against the door, the hat falling to the ground with a dull thud.

His mouth covered hers as his hands began unbuttoning her waist coat and shirt. “Irene Adler,” he groaned into her ear. “It’s been awhile since I’ve desired a woman the way I want you.” He grabbed her hips and pulled her close to him.

Irene began laughing as her hands pulled his coat off before scrabbling at the buttons of his waistcoat. Her hands slid down to his trousers as she unbuttoned them and pulled his cock out. Sliding down his body, she looked up at him with a sly smile before taking an experimental lick.

Mycroft’s body shuddered and his fingers wound through her hair. He let out a low growl, massaging her scalp. Taking that as permission to continue, Irene took as much of him in her mouth as she could, using one hand to wrap around the remaining shaft and balls.

Normally Irene didn’t care of it when a man held her head with their hands because they would attempt to set a pace that ended with her gagging. But this was different. She could feel the last remaining moors of Mycroft’s control slipping away and it was intoxicating, knowing that she was one of the few women who could get him to react in such a physical manner.

For Mycroft, it was a battle not to completely surrender to the warm, wet sensation of her tongue sliding around him and the way her fingers cupped him. He could feel heat coiling in his belly as his fingers massaged her scalp. A low chuckle emitted from her nearly pushed him over the edge, but he breathed deeply to try and maintain some semblance of control.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Irene, or that he didn’t want to lose himself in her, but more that he didn’t want it over so quickly. For that reason, he gently pushed her back.

“You didn’t like it?” she asked, looking up at him.

Mycroft shook his head. “I loved it,” he said, pulling her up. “But, I know wood floors can’t be comfortable on the knees and I want something more.”

“What?”

He took her hand and led her upstairs, stopping to plunder her mouth every few steps or so. “I want to feel you around me,” he whispered in her ear. “I want to feel you lose control also.”

Irene nodded, then took his hand and sucked on a finger. She was rewarded with a guttural groan as Mycroft led her to his bedroom, where the last vestiges of clothing fell to the ground.

It was three simple steps to the bed, where they tumbled onto the mattress, kissing the entire time. Mycroft rolled on his back as Irene stroked him, his fingers sliding down between her thighs. She was still wet and his fingers slid easily into her, causing her to shudder and moan when his thumb brushed over her clit.

She straddled him and slid down his cock with a deep, satisfied sigh. Mycroft’s hands held her hips as they began to set the pace. Irene could feel another orgasm begin to flicker through her body as she rocked on, moaning softly.

“Mycroft,” Irene moaned, feeling the urge to say those words again as she prepared to walk the edge again. “I --”

There was a laugh as Mycroft’s hand slid up to tease a nipple, causing her to gasp. “I know,” he said. “You save a man’s life two times and he gets ideas.”

“Just like how I’m getting ideas by you allowing me in your house?” Irene said huskily, picking up the pace a bit more as the feeling of arousal became stronger.

“Mayhap,” Mycroft smiled devilishly as he adjusted one hand around her hip to stimulate her clit a bit more.

Laughter caused Irene to shake as she moved down to kiss him. Mycroft began to thrust faster as his hands gripped her hips firmly. Her fingers wound through his hair as their tongues tangled and laughter bubbled from their throats. He stroked her more roughly as her hips began to buck against him as she felt herself slide over the edge, with Mycroft soon joining her as he let out a satisfied groan into her mouth.

Any hopes of a conversation were soon obliterated as the Irene slid off of Mycroft. Pulling the blankets back as best as possible, the sated couple soon found themselves drifting to sleep, with Irene nestled in the crook of Mycroft’s arm.

For the first time in years, Mycroft slept peacefully. When he woke, he wasn’t surprised to see that all traces of Irene were gone, save for a fat envelope on the dresser. To his practiced eye, Mycroft noticed that nothing was taken -- his art remained on the walls, the safe behind a family portrait remained undisturbed and even his wallet was untouched on the dresser. Irene still could surprise him in the smallest of ways.

But as he opened the envelope, Mycroft began to chuckle. Inside were documents detailing some of Moriarty’s business transactions. He wasn’t sure if Irene would continue feeding him information, but this was a boon no matter what.

Also included was a pocket watch of sterling quality. When he opened the hunter case, Mycroft observed that there was a dime embedded on the inside of the case. Further investigation of the envelope resulted in a note, scented with Irene’s perfume and folded in that same complex style that he first encountered in Bern.

Opening it and reading the contents, Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh:

_Dear Mycroft --_

_A token to remember me by. The line is “A dime if you tell me that you love me,” not “a shilling.”_

_Until we meet again,_

_Irene Adler_


End file.
